Page 17

ROSARIA

T he vocal studio sits in the forgotten wing of Emilio's estate, where dust motes dance through cracked window panes and floorboards creak with every step.

I've claimed this space as mine—the one room where his surveillance feels distant, where his expectations can't penetrate the thick stone walls.

The piano keys are yellowed with age, several notes sticking when I press them, but the acoustics remain perfect.

Sound bounces off these walls with crystalline clarity, each note lingering in the air.

I've been here for hours. My throat burns, my shoulders ache from tension, but I continue.

Puccini's O Mio Babbino Caro flows from my lips, each phrase carefully controlled, each breath measured.

The aria demands vulnerability—a daughter pleading with her father for love, for understanding, for permission to choose her own path. The irony isn't lost on me.

My phone buzzes against the piano bench. Eva's name flashes across the screen.

"You sound tired," she says without preamble when I answer.

"I'm fine." I lean against the piano, grateful for the interruption even as I resist admitting it.

"Rosaria, you can't keep hiding in that mausoleum. When's the last time you slept?"

"I'll sleep when I win the Tosca audition." The words come out sharper than I should speak with my only friend, but I can't even temper the frustration I feel. "I'm going to get that role, Eva. And then I'm getting out of here."

Silence on the other end. Eva knows better than to ask where I plan to go, how I plan to survive without the Costa name protecting me. We both understand that freedom is a luxury I've never been able to afford.

"Listen," she says finally, her voice dropping low. "Luca's been asking questions. About you. About your situation."

My blood chills. "What kind of questions?"

"The kind that suggest he's under pressure. Someone's been talking to the board, Rosaria. They're nervous."

I close my eyes, the pieces clicking into place. "Emilio."

"That's what I'm thinking. He's using the opera house to keep you caged. If he controls your career?—"

"He controls me." I finish the thought, my voice hollow. "He doesn't need bars when he owns every door."

"Be careful," Eva whispers. "Promise me."

I end the call without answering, because we both know promises are worthless when you're already trapped.

The studio feels smaller now, the shadows deeper. I return to the piano, but the notes that emerge are discordant, angry. My voice cracks on a high C, and I slam my fist against the keys in frustration. The harsh crash reverberates through the room.

I need air. I need space. I need to remember how it feels to breathe without permission.

Back in my room, exhaustion pulls at my bones, but sleep refuses to come. I stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster, when my fingers brush against something beneath my pillow. It's a phone. Small, cheap, definitely not mine, but here all the same.

The screen glows when I press the power button. One message waits in the inbox, the sender unknown.

Unknown 4:18 PM: Come to me.

My heart pounds against my ribs. The message could be from anyone—Emilio testing my loyalty, Alba laying another trap, some rival family playing games. But deep in my chest, I know exactly who sent it. The certainty settles over me with the same inevitability as nightfall.

I should delete the message. I should turn off the phone and pretend it never existed. Instead, I find myself pulling on dark clothes, slipping my feet into soft-soled shoes that won't echo against the marble floors.

The estate rests around me as I move through familiar corridors.

I know which boards creak, which doors stick, which windows offer the clearest view of the perimeter guards.

Emilio trained me well, though not for this purpose.

Every lesson in survival, every warning about enemies at the gate—he never considered that the real threat might come from within his own walls.

The kitchen door opens silently under my touch.

Cool evening air greets my face as I step onto the terrace, then slip through the gardens toward the estate's outer walls.

My heart hammers so loudly I'm certain the guards will hear it, but they remain at their posts, eyes focused outward rather than in.

At the gate, I pull out the burner phone and compose a single message.

Rosaria 4:32 PM: On my way.

The response comes immediately.

Unknown 4:33 PM: Corner of Via Appia. Five minutes.

I delete both messages and drop the phone into a flower bed.

The street beyond the estate's walls feels foreign beneath my feet.

Rome surrounds me as normal as can be as I weave through the old buildings that boast historical significance.

I've lived in this city my entire life, yet I've never walked these streets alone, never felt the pavement through my shoes without bodyguards flanking my steps.

The black sedan arrives exactly when promised. Two men in dark suits emerge, their faces unfamiliar but their bearing unmistakable. They don't introduce themselves, don't ask questions. One opens the rear door with the same efficiency as Emilio's men.

" Signorina Costa," the driver says as we pull away from the curb, "we'll be flying tonight."

The helicopter waits on a private pad outside the city, its rotors already spinning when we arrive.

I've flown many times—to performances across Europe, to meetings Emilio deemed necessary—but never at night, never without an itinerary approved by his security team.

The ground falls away beneath us, Rome's lights shrinking to pinpricks against the darkness.

Naples spreads before us as we descend, the bay glittering under a crescent moon. The city pulses with different energy than Rome—rawer, more alive. Even from this height, I can feel it calling.

We land on a rooftop I don't recognize, though the building clearly belongs to someone with significant resources.

Gardens surround the landing pad, their edges marked by subtle lighting that doesn't interfere with the helicopter's approach.

Men in expensive suits wait at a respectful distance, their attention focused outward rather than on me.

The elevator carries us down through floors of what appears to be a converted palazzo. Through the doors' glass panels, I catch glimpses of artwork, marble columns, rooms designed for both beauty and privacy. This isn't a home. It's a palace.

The dining room occupies the entire top floor, its walls replaced by floor-to-ceiling windows that offer panoramic views of the bay.

Dozens of tables fill the space, each one occupied by men in tailored suits and women dripping with jewelry that catches the candlelight.

The conversation hums with accents from across Europe and beyond—German, French, Russian, Arabic phrases mixing with rapid Italian.

The room falls silent when I enter.

Every face turns toward me, conversations dying mid-sentence. I've experienced this before—the moment when a crowd recognizes The Rose of Rome—but this feels different. Hungrier. These aren't opera patrons appreciating art. These are predators recognizing prey.

Salvatore sits at the center table, his back to the windows, positioned where he can see every entrance and exit.

He doesn't rise when our eyes meet across the room.

He doesn't smile. He simply watches as I move through the sudden quiet toward his table as a warm smile crosses his lips.

Then he points to the empty chair beside him.

I walk through the crowd, feeling their eyes follow my every step. The chair is warm when I settle into it, the fabric soft against my skin. The conversation gradually resumes around us, but at a lower volume, as if the entire room has shifted into a more intimate register.

"You came," Salvatore says, his voice pitched for my ears alone.

"You asked." I'm nervous, though not as much so as last time when I snuck out to meet him in that night club. Uncle Emilio didn't even know I left his home, and I'm hoping for the same thing this evening.

His hand finds my wrist beneath the table, fingers circling the delicate bones there. His touch is warm, possessive, but not painful. "You can leave whenever you want," he says. "No one will stop you."

I look around the room—at the guards positioned near every exit, at the men who arrived with briefcases and departed with handshakes, at the women whose jewelry probably costs more than most people's homes. "And if I don't want to leave?"

"Then you stay,” he says, and a smile quirks the corners of his mouth.

The conversation flows around us as courses arrive and disappear.

Salvatore speaks to his guests in languages I recognize but don't fully understand, his attention divided between business and the woman beside him.

His thumb traces circles against my pulse point, a rhythm that matches my heartbeat until I can't tell which is leading.

I eat little, drink less, but I listen. These aren't the conversations I hear at Emilio's table. These men discuss territories and shipments, percentages and partnerships. They speak of Rome as a prize to be won rather than a city to be protected.

When the evening winds down and guests begin departing, Salvatore releases my wrist. "The balcony?" he suggests.

I nod and rise, moving toward the glass doors that lead outside. The night air hits my face as I step onto the terrace, cool and salt-tinged from the nearby bay. Naples spreads below us, a carpet of lights extending to the horizon.

I rest my hands on the stone railing and breathe deeply. Behind me, voices fade as the last guests depart, leaving only the distant sound of traffic and waves against the shore.

I came here tonight because a text message commanded it.

I stayed because a man touched my wrist and asked me to.

But standing here, looking out over a city that doesn't belong to Emilio, breathing air that doesn't carry his expectations, I realize I'm no longer sure who I'm performing for.

The guests who applaud? Salvatore, who watches me with hunger in his eyes?

Or myself—the woman who snuck out of a fortress to answer a stranger's call?

The distinction no longer seems important. What does is the feeling spreading through my chest as I stare down at Naples' glittering lights—the first taste of possibility I've experienced in years.