Page 20

SALVATORE

T he footage from today's rehearsal plays on my laptop screen for the third time, and I pause it at the moment Rosaria steps center stage.

Even through the grainy surveillance camera, I can see the tension carved into her shoulders, the way she holds her spine too rigid, as if her internal pressure has caused her bones to turn to steel.

Her voice remains flawless—it always does—but her body tells a different story.

I close the laptop and lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. The office feels too small tonight while my mind churns through possibilities and consequences.

"Boss?" Tano's voice cuts through my thoughts. He stands in the doorway, tablet in hand, waiting for permission to enter.

"Come in. What do you have?"

He crosses the room and sets the tablet on my desk. The screen displays a series of financial transactions. "The opera house board meeting from yesterday. Three members received significant deposits within hours of the vote to remove her from the showcase."

I scroll through the numbers, recognizing the routing patterns immediately. "Emilio's money."

"Has to be. The amounts are too precise, too coordinated to be coincidence."

I set the tablet aside and walk to the window overlooking Naples. The city sprawls beneath me, lights twinkling in the darkness, but my thoughts remain fixed on Rome. On her.

"Any word from our contact at the opera house?"

"Luca's been dodging calls since the board meeting. Word is he's nervous about the pressure from both sides."

I turn away from the window, decision crystallizing in my mind. "Get him on the phone. Now."

Tano dials while I pour myself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the office lights. The call connects on the fourth ring, and I can hear the reluctance in Luca's voice before he even speaks.

" Signor DeSantis," he says, and I can practically feel him sweating through the phone. "I wasn't expecting?—"

"The showcase," I interrupt. "She's back on it."

Thick silence crackles across the line, broken only by the sound of traffic in the background. Luca clears his throat nervously. "I'm afraid that's not possible. The board has made their decision, and?—"

"The board made their decision based on Costa money. We both know that."

"Even if that were true, which I'm not saying it is, my hands are tied. I can't override a board decision without cause."

I take a sip of whiskey, letting the burn settle in my throat before responding. "Then find cause. Or better yet, create it."

"I don't understand what you're asking me to do."

"Alba Sorrenti. She's been making noise about wanting Rosaria's roles. Cut her opportunities. All of them."

Another pause, longer this time. "Salvatore, I can't?—"

"You can, and you will. Because if you don't, I'll find someone who can take your position. Someone more flexible about board decisions and Costa influence."

My threat has his rapt attention. Luca knows I have the resources to make good on it, knows that his comfortable position at the opera house depends on maintaining the delicate balance between competing interests.

"I'll see what I can do," he says finally.

"Good. And Luca? Next time I call, answer on the first ring."

I end the call and hand the phone back to Tano, who's been watching the entire exchange with curious attention. The young man absorbs interactions like a sponge, soaking up knowledge from every interaction. He will make a fine consigliere for my brother some day.

"Think he'll follow through?" he asks.

"He'll follow through. Men who value their comfort above their principles always do."

After Tano leaves, I find myself opening Rosaria's file again.

The photographs, background information, performance reviews—all of it spread across my desk in organized chaos.

I realize I've been checking this file every day for weeks now, memorizing details that should be irrelevant to business but have become essential to understanding her.

Her father's death certificate. Her early conservatory records.

Reviews of performances where critics praised her technical precision but noted an emotional distance in her interpretations.

All the pieces of a life shaped by obligation and expectation, by the need to be perfect rather than authentic.

I close the file and check my watch. Rocco should be picking her up from the opera house in an hour, following the same routine that's been established since the fight with Bruno. But tonight, I have different plans.

The streets around the opera house are quieter at this hour, most of the evening crowd having already dispersed to restaurants and cafes.

I position myself near the staff entrance, where the lighting is dim and the foot traffic minimal.

Rocco's car appears right on schedule, the headlights cutting through the growing darkness as he navigates the narrow street.

I step directly into his path, forcing him to brake hard. The car stops inches from where I stand, and I can see Rocco's face through the windshield—surprise giving way to anger as he recognizes me.

I walk around to the driver's side and lean down to the window level. Rocco doesn't roll it down, but I can see him clearly through the glass, his jaw clenched with the effort of controlling his temper.

He finally lowers the window, his voice tight with barely contained aggression. "What do you want?"

"Tonight, I'll be walking her home," I say, my tone conversational despite the tension radiating from both of us.

"The hell you will. I have orders from Emilio."

"And I'm giving you new ones."

Rocco's hand moves toward his jacket, and I know he's reaching for a weapon. But I don't flinch, don't step back or show any sign of concern. Instead, I lean closer to the window.

"If Emilio keeps using her like leverage, the blowback will get personal," I tell him, and I don't mince words. "You can pass that message along."

Before he can respond, I pull out my knife and slash the front tire with one quick motion. The air hisses out in a steady stream, and Rocco's eyes widen with shock and fury.

"You son of a?—"

But I'm already walking away, disappearing into the shadows between buildings before he can finish the curse. Let him explain to Emilio why he couldn't complete his assignment. Let him deal with the consequences of my message.

I wait in the alley across from the staff entrance, watching for Rosaria to emerge. The opera house empties slowly, performers and crew filtering out in small groups, their conversations echoing off the stone walls of the surrounding buildings.

When she finally appears, she pauses at the entrance, clearly expecting to see Rocco's car. Her eyes scan the street, confusion evident in her posture, before she notices me stepping out of the shadows.

"Where's Rocco?" she asks, though she doesn't sound disappointed by his absence.

"Dealing with car trouble," I tell her. "I'll walk you home."

She considers this for a moment, then nods. We begin walking through the narrow streets of Rome as the sound of passing traffic echoes off ancient stones while the city settles into its evening rhythm around us.

"How was rehearsal?" I ask.

"Tense," she admits. "Everything feels different now. The other performers look at me sideways, the director avoids eye contact. I can feel the politics in every room I enter."

We turn onto a broader avenue, passing beneath streetlights that cast long shadows on the pavement. She walks with the grace of someone trained in stage movement, but I can still see the tension I noticed in the surveillance footage.

"Tell me about your father's records," I say, remembering a detail from her file.

She glances at me, surprised by the question. "How do you know about those?"

"You mentioned them once. You said singing used to be the only part of your life that felt like yours."

We walk in silence for several minutes before she speaks again.

"He had this collection of old recordings.

Opera, yes, but also jazz, blues, things that Emilio would have considered beneath the family's image.

When I was young, before the formal training started, I used to listen to them and sing along. "

"What changed?"

"Emilio decided I had potential. Real potential.

The kind that could benefit the family." She pauses at a street corner, waiting for traffic to clear.

"Once the lessons started, once the contracts were signed, singing became about perfection rather than joy.

About representing something larger than myself. "

"And now?"

"Now I'm not sure what it represents. Every performance feels calculated, every note chosen for its political implications rather than its artistic merit."

We cross the street and continue toward the Costa estate, the familiar route taking us through increasingly upscale neighborhoods. The houses grow larger, the security more visible, as we approach the world that shaped her.

"You're not alone in this," I tell her as we near the estate gates.

She stops walking and turns to face me fully. In the dim streetlight, her eyes search my face for something—truth, perhaps, or reassurance that my words carry meaning beyond mere comfort.

"I don't feel alone," she says quietly. "Not anymore."

Her admission captures my full attention as she meets my gaze. I want to reach for her, to close the distance that protocol and circumstance have forced between us, but the estate gates loom ahead, and I know our time is limited.

"Go," I tell her. "Bruno will follow at a distance to make sure you're safe."

She nods and continues toward the gates, her figure growing smaller in the darkness. I step back into the shadows, watching until she disappears inside the estate grounds, then signal to Bruno, who's been waiting in a car two blocks away.

The walk back through Rome gives me time to think, to plan the next moves in this increasingly complex game. Emilio's influence over the opera house can be countered, Alba's ambitions can be redirected, and the board's decisions can be changed with the right pressure applied in the right places.

But the real challenge isn't political or financial—it's the growing certainty that what started as leverage has become something I can't afford to lose. Every conversation with her reveals new layers, new reasons she's become essential rather than expendable.

Tomorrow, I'll continue the campaign to protect her career, to neutralize the threats that surround her. But tonight, I walk through the ancient streets of Rome and acknowledge what I've been avoiding for weeks. This isn't about business anymore. I am falling for The Rose of Rome.