Page 2

"He'll tell Luca Romano," Bruno observes, his voice carrying the flat certainty of professional experience.

"Yes."

"Romano will contact Emilio."

"Eventually." I return my attention to the stage, where stagehands are preparing the set for Act Two. "But not immediately. Romano will try to handle this himself first. He'll hope to resolve the situation without involving his benefactor."

Tano shifts behind me, leather creaking as he adjusts his position. "And if he can't?"

"Then Emilio learns that his control over Rome has limits."

The house lights dim again, signaling the end of intermission. Conversations fade as the audience settles back into their seats. The orchestra begins Act Two with ominous brass that matches my mood perfectly.

Rosaria returns to the stage transformed. Her burgundy gown has been replaced by a simpler dress that suggests Tosca's growing desperation. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, the careful perfection of Act One replaced by calculated dishevelment that serves the character's emotional journey.

But her voice remains flawless. If anything, the dramatic intensity has sharpened her performance, each note delivered with surgical precision that cuts through the theater's acoustics to lodge directly in the listener's chest. When she sings " Vissi d'arte "—Tosca's prayer before her ultimate sacrifice—the silence that follows is absolute.

Even the orchestra seems afraid to break the spell her voice has woven.

I watch her face during the aria, studying the micro-expressions that flicker across her features as she inhabits the character's despair. This is not mere technical proficiency. She understands suffering on a level that transcends artistic interpretation.

Interesting.

Act Two concludes with Tosca's murder of Scarpia, the opera's central moment of violence and liberation.

Rosaria delivers the killing blow with convincing fury, her face transformed by an anger that seems to draw from genuine sources.

When she stands over the fallen baron, her chest heaving with exertion and emotion, I see something in her expression that has nothing to do with staged drama.

Rage. Real, carefully controlled, deeply buried rage.

The final act blurs past in a haze of tragic inevitability. Tosca's suicide, Cavaradossi's execution, the lovers' destruction by forces beyond their control. The opera ends as it must—with death and the promise that some forms of love transcend the boundaries of mortality.

The audience erupts in thunderous applause as the curtain falls.

Rose petals rain from the balconies again, carpeting the stage in crimson that mirrors the tragedy just concluded.

Rosaria takes her bow with the same controlled grace she has displayed throughout the evening, but I notice the slight tremor in her hands as she accepts the audience's adoration.

Exhaustion. The performance has drained her, physically and emotionally. Good. Vulnerability is easier to exploit than strength.

The applause continues for nearly ten minutes, the audience calling for encore after encore.

Rosaria obliges with gracious professionalism, but I can see the effort it costs her to maintain the facade.

When the curtain finally falls for the last time, she disappears into the stage's depths with visible relief.

The house lights rise and the audience begins to disperse, their conversations already turning to dinner plans and social obligations. The magic of the performance dissolves into the mundane reality of Rome's cultural calendar.

I remain seated, watching the theater empty. Bruno and Tano maintain their positions, patient as statues. We have nowhere else to be tonight. My schedule belongs to me completely, shaped by desires rather than obligations.

Twenty minutes pass before Benedetti returns, his appearance even more haggard than before. The conversation with Romano has clearly not gone well.

" Signore ," he begins, his voice hoarse with strain. "I have spoken with Director Romano. He... he extends his regrets, but Miss Costa is not available for visitors this evening. Perhaps another time, with advance notice?—"

"Where is Romano now?"

The question cuts through his prepared speech. "I... in his office, Signore ."

"Take me to him."

Benedetti's face crumples with defeat. " Signore , please. The director is a very busy man, and?—"

I stand, the movement sharp enough to make him flinch. "Now."

We leave the box in single file—myself, Bruno, Tano, and the increasingly desperate house manager.

The corridors behind the theater are less opulent than the public spaces, their walls painted institutional beige and lined with framed photographs of past performances.

The Rosa Costa features prominently in recent images, her face appearing in dozens of publicity shots that chronicle her rise to stardom.

Romano's office occupies a corner suite overlooking the theater's rear courtyard. The door is solid oak, its surface polished to mirror brightness. A brass nameplate identifies its occupant.

LUCA ROMANO, ARTISTIC DIRECTOR .

Benedetti knocks with the reverence of a supplicant approaching an altar. "Director Romano? Signor DeSantis wishes to speak with you."

The silence that follows carries the weight of desperate calculation. Romano is weighing his options, searching for an escape route that doesn't exist. When he finally responds, his voice carries the brittle quality of a man approaching his breaking point.

"Enter."

The office beyond the door reflects Romano's position within Rome's cultural hierarchy.

Persian rugs cover polished hardwood floors.

Oil paintings line the walls—originals, not prints, their value measured in decades of careful acquisition.

A mahogany desk dominates the room's center, its surface cluttered with librettos, correspondence, and the tools of artistic administration.

Romano sits behind the desk wearing full evening dress, his bow tie loosened and his collar open.

He is younger than I expected—perhaps forty-five, with prematurely gray hair and the soft physique of a man who has spent his life in cushioned seats rather than on dangerous streets.

His eyes carry the intelligence of someone who has navigated Rome's cultural politics long enough to survive, but not long enough to feel secure.

" Signor DeSantis." He rises from his chair with the stiff formality of a man acknowledging a superior. "An unexpected honor."

"Luca Romano." I settle into one of the leather chairs facing his desk, the movement calculated to suggest permanence rather than casual visitation. "We need to discuss Miss Costa."

His composure cracks slightly, revealing the fear beneath his professional facade. "Miss Costa is our premier soprano, yes. A remarkable talent, truly extraordinary. But she maintains very strict boundaries regarding personal appearances?—"

"I'm not requesting a personal appearance."

The correction stops his prepared speech cold. Romano blinks rapidly, processing the implication. If not a personal appearance, then what? The question hangs between us, unasked but unmistakable.

"I want five minutes of her time. Backstage. Tonight."

" Signore , I must protest?—"

"Must you?"

The words carry enough menace to make him sink back into his chair. Behind me, Bruno shifts his position slightly, the leather of his holster creaking softly. The sound is barely audible, but in the office's silence it carries the force of a thunderclap.

Romano's gaze flickers to Bruno, then to Tano, before returning to my face. He is calculating odds, weighing the consequences of compliance against the price of refusal. The mathematics are simple. Emilio Costa's protection offers future security, but my presence represents immediate danger.

"Five minutes," he whispers.

"In her dressing room."

"That's... that's highly irregular. Miss Costa values her privacy?—"

"Five minutes, Romano. In her dressing room. Alone."

Each word falls with the precision of a nail being driven into wood. Romano's resistance crumbles completely, his shoulders sagging as he accepts the inevitable.

"I will... make the arrangements."

"Now."

He reaches for the telephone on his desk, his fingers dialing with the mechanical precision of a man performing actions under duress.

The conversation that follows is brief and one-sided—Romano speaking in clipped sentences while listening to responses I cannot hear.

When he hangs up, his face has acquired the pallor of old parchment.

"Miss Costa will see you in fifteen minutes. Dressing Room 3, ground level. Her dresser will escort you."

"Alone, Romano."

"Yes, of course. Alone."

I stand, the movement sudden enough to make him flinch. "Excellent cooperation. Your theater has a bright future under such flexible leadership."

The praise carries an undercurrent of threat that makes his hands tremble against the desktop. I turn toward the door, Bruno and Tano falling into formation behind me.

" Signore ." Romano's voice stops me at the threshold. "Miss Costa... she is under the protection of very powerful people."

I turn to face him, allowing a smile to play across my lips. The expression carries no warmth, only the cold satisfaction of a predator cornering its prey.

"So am I."

The corridor outside Romano's office leads toward the theater's backstage areas, where the magic of performance dissolves into the mundane reality of costume racks and makeup stations.

The walls here are lined with photographs of past productions, their frames chronicling decades of artistic achievement.

Rosaria's face appears with increasing frequency in recent images, her progression from chorus member to leading lady documented in careful detail.

Dressing Room 3 sits at the corridor's end, its door marked by a simple brass nameplate.

R. COSTA .

The simplicity is deceptive—this is the theater's premier dressing room, reserved for its most important performers. The space beyond that door represents the intersection of artistic achievement and criminal protection.

I check my watch. Twelve minutes have passed since Romano's phone call. Three minutes remain before my appointment with Rome's most untouchable woman.