Page 19

ROSARIA

T he halls of the opera house echo with my footsteps as I walk toward Luca's office, my stomach already churning before I've even heard the news.

The schedule board near the rehearsal rooms caught my attention twenty minutes ago—my name is absent from the showcase lineup where it should have been prominently displayed.

I knock on Luca's door, though I don't wait for permission before entering. He looks up from his desk, his expression carefully neutral in that way that tells me he's expecting my explosion. He should—this place used to be my castle and it feels like I’ve been relegated to the dungeon lately.

"Rosaria," he says, setting down his pen. "Please, sit."

"I'll stand." I fold my arms across my chest. "Why am I not on the showcase schedule?"

Luca leans back in his chair, and I can see him choosing his words carefully.

More than anyone else in this wretched, politically driven organism, Luca plays the game.

Money changes hands and artists rise or fall based on the whims of whoever pays the most. My uncle is playing a deadly game with my future and I hate it.

"The board has expressed some concerns," he begins.

"What kind of concerns?" I snap, knowing that by saying "board" he means Emilio.

"About your public image. Your... associations."

The word cuts through me, though I refuse to let it show on my face. "My associations?"

"Your connection to Salvatore DeSantis is becoming a liability, Rosaria. The board feels it reflects poorly on the opera house's reputation."

I stare at him, processing this information while fury builds in my chest. "The board or my uncle?" My glare hardens to stone and he looks away from me. "So they're punishing me for who I know?"

"They're protecting the institution," Luca says, and there's genuine regret in his voice. "You're one of our most talented performers, but talent alone isn't enough anymore. Not in this climate."

I turn toward the door in a huff. There's nothing else to say. We both understand the politics at play here, the invisible strings that control every aspect of my life.

The hallway outside his office feels endless as I walk toward the backstage area, my mind spinning with the implications of what I've learned.

The sound of shouting interrupts my thoughts before I reach the main corridor.

Raised voices echo from the loading area behind the stage, accompanied by what sounds distinctly similar to bodies colliding with walls.

I quicken my pace, my heels clicking against the floor as I hurry toward the commotion.

The scene that greets me around the corner stops me cold.

Bruno and Rocco are locked in what can only be described as a full brawl—not the restrained, controlled violence I've witnessed before, but genuine, brutal combat.

Bruno's shirt is torn, blood trickling from a cut above his eyebrow.

Rocco's knuckles are already swelling, his breathing labored as he throws another punch that connects solidly with Bruno's ribs.

"Enough!" Donata's voice cuts through the chaos, but neither man pays attention to her. Their squabble is small-scale representing the larger conflict between my uncle and the man I'm fast becoming attached to in ways I never dreamed.

Stagehands hover at the edges of the fight, unsure whether to intervene or retreat to safety. The loading dock's concrete walls make every impact echo, amplifying the violence unfolding before my eyes.

"She's under Salvatore's protection," Bruno grunts between punches, his voice strained but determined. "Those are my orders."

"Emilio won't allow it," Rocco responds, landing a blow to Bruno's shoulder that sends him stumbling backward. "She belongs to this family, not yours."

The words chill me more than the violence does.

They're fighting over me as if I'm property to be claimed, their fists settling a dispute about ownership that I apparently have no voice in.

I'm livid as I begin to understand that Salvatore is staking a claim, like I'm just a toy to be bought or sold.

Two stagehands finally work up the courage to grab Bruno's arms while Donata and another crew member restrain Rocco. Both men struggle against their captors, still trying to reach each other even as blood drips onto the concrete.

I remain frozen in place, watching this display of masculine posturing that will determine my immediate future. Neither man looks at me—I'm the prize they're fighting for, but my opinion on the matter appears irrelevant to both of them.

The struggle continues for several more seconds before exhaustion finally wins out over anger.

Bruno stops pulling against the hands holding him, though his eyes remain fixed on Rocco with undisguised hatred.

Rocco straightens his torn jacket, wiping blood from his split lip with the back of his hand.

"This isn't over," Bruno says, his voice low and threatening.

"Yes, it is," Rocco replies. He turns toward me for the first time since I arrived, his expression brooking no argument. "We're leaving."

Before I can protest or even process what's happening, Rocco's hand closes around my upper arm.

His grip isn't gentle—it's the firm hold of someone who expects compliance, not discussion.

He pulls me toward the exit, and I find myself walking alongside him simply because resisting would create an even bigger scene, but I glance over my shoulder silently disappointed that Bruno couldn't best him.

After what I learned from Luca, I'd rather be going to the DeSantis mansion.

The car ride to the Costa estate passes in tense silence.

Rocco drives with controlled aggression, his damaged knuckles gripping the steering wheel while he navigates Rome's evening traffic.

I stare out the passenger window, watching the city blur past while my mind races through the implications of what I've witnessed.

The gates of the estate come into view too soon, and I feel my stomach tighten as we pull into the circular driveway. The house looks exactly as it always has—imposing, elegant, wrapped in the kind of old-world luxury that masks the darkness lurking beneath its surface.

Emilio waits for us in his study, seated behind his massive desk as if he's been expecting our arrival. He looks up from his papers when Rocco escorts me into the room, his expression revealing nothing about his knowledge of recent events.

"Rosaria," he says, his voice warm in that calculated way he reserves for family gatherings and business meetings. "How was your day at the opera house?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," I tell him, refusing to play his game of feigned ignorance.

Emilio sets down his pen and leans back in his chair, studying my face with those pale eyes that seem to see everything. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean."

"Bruno and Rocco nearly killed each other today fighting over who gets to watch me. Are you going to tell me that happened without your knowledge?"

A slight smile plays at the corners of Emilio's mouth. "Men can be territorial creatures, especially when they feel their authority is being questioned."

"Their authority over what? Over me?"

"Over their responsibilities," he corrects, though we both know the distinction is meaningless. "You've put yourself in a position where protection is necessary, and different parties have different ideas about how that protection should be provided."

I step closer to his desk, anger finally overriding the caution that usually governs my interactions with him. "I didn't ask for protection from anyone."

"No," he agrees. "But you've made choices that require it, nonetheless."

The study falls silent except for the ticking of the antique clock on the mantel. Emilio watches me with the patience of a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run.

"What do you want from me?" I ask finally.

"I want you to stay in line," he says, and all pretense of warmth disappears from his voice. "I want you to remember who raised you, who gave you opportunities, who made your career possible. I want you to stop making decisions that put this family at risk."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you'll lose everything." The words are delivered without emotion, as if he's discussing the weather rather than threatening to destroy my life. "Your career, your reputation, your security—all of it depends on maintaining the relationships that brought you to where you are today."

I want to argue, to tell him that my talent earned my place at the opera house, but we both know the truth runs deeper than that.

In Rome, talent without connections means nothing, and my connections all trace back to this house, this man, this web of obligations that has defined my entire adult life.

"I understand," I say, though the words taste bitter in my mouth.

"Good." Emilio picks up his pen again, already dismissing me from his attention. "Rocco will see you out."

My room feels different when I enter it alone—as if the walls have moved closer together while I was away.

Rocco snarls at me as he shuts the door and locks me in, and I pour myself a glass of wine and settle onto my bed, trying to process the events of the day, when my phone buzzes with a text message.

The number is unfamiliar, but the message makes my blood run cold.

Unknown 3:28 PM: Check your email.

I open my laptop with trembling fingers, dreading what I'll find waiting for me. Alba's message appears at the top of my inbox, the subject line reading simply, Final Warning .

The email contains no text, only a video attachment that I know I shouldn't open but can't resist viewing.

The footage is grainy, clearly shot from a distance, but the image is unmistakable—me walking through the gates of Salvatore's estate a week ago, my face clearly visible as I approach the front door.

My phone rings before I can fully absorb the implications of what I've seen. Alba's voice is crisp and businesslike when I answer.

"I assume you've seen the video," she says openly. This isn't a secret blackmail attempt. This is an open threat. She is the one having me followed to provide information to the board and to my uncle.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to withdraw from all future roles at the opera house. Publicly. Cite personal reasons, family obligations, whatever excuse you prefer. But make it clear that you're stepping back from your career indefinitely."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then every member of the opera house board will receive a copy of this video, along with several others I've collected over the past few weeks. Your relationship with Salvatore DeSantis will become public knowledge, and I think we both know how that will affect your reputation."

The line goes quiet while I consider my options, though we both understand I don't really have any. Alba holds all the cards in this game, and she's finally decided to play them.

"You have twenty-four hours," she continues. "After that, the video goes public regardless of what you decide."

The call ends, leaving me alone with the devastating realization that everything I've worked for is about to disappear. The opera house, my career, my independence—all of it will be gone by tomorrow night, sacrificed to protect a relationship that I can't even publicly acknowledge.

I close my laptop and finish my wine, staring out at the Roman skyline as darkness settles over the city. My stomach roils too, nausea over the fact that I'm being pushed into a corner against my will.

The irony isn't lost on me—I'm about to lose everything because of a connection I never intended to form with a man who promised me power but delivered only complications.

The stage that has been my sanctuary for years will soon be forbidden territory, and the audience that once applauded my performances will know me only as a scandal.

Outside my window, Rome continues its ancient dance of power and politics, of secrets and survival. Tomorrow, I'll become another casualty in that endless game, another voice silenced by forces beyond my control.