Page 21

ROSARIA

T he alley behind the café reeks of old grease and cigarette smoke. I wait in the shadows, checking my phone every few seconds. Eva appears at the mouth of the narrow passage, her usual bright smile replaced by concern.

"You look terrible," she says, pulling me deeper into the dim space between buildings.

"Thank you for the honesty." I lean against the brick wall, feeling the rough texture through my coat. "I need to show you this."

My hands shake as I unlock my phone. The video loads slowly, Alba's face filling the screen. Her voice makes me shudder. It's the same response I've had every time I've watched this video.

"Hello, Rosaria. I hope you're enjoying your little vacation from reality. But all good things must end, mustn’t they?"

The camera pans across photographs spread on a marble table. Me walking through Salvatore's gates. Me in his garden. Me leaving his estate at dawn, hair mussed, dress wrinkled. The angles are too perfect, too calculated. She's been watching me for weeks.

"These are quite beautiful, aren't they? The lighting is exquisite. I think the press would find them fascinating—especially the tabloids. They do love a fallen angel story."

Alba's manicured fingers trace the edge of one photograph.

"Withdraw from all opera house auditions.

Publicly endorse me as your replacement.

Do this, and these images remain private.

Refuse, and every major publication in Italy will have them by morning.

I'm sure your uncle would be thrilled to see his precious rose blooming in such interesting gardens. "

The video ends. Eva stares at the blank screen, her face pale.

"That vicious little—" She catches herself. "When did you get this?"

"Yesterday morning. Right after rehearsal."

Eva takes the phone, rewinding to study the photographs. "These are professional quality. She hired someone to follow you."

"I know."

"You have to tell Emilio."

The words make my blood run cold. "No."

"Rosaria, you can't handle this alone. He needs to know what she's doing."

"If I tell him, he'll destroy her. And everyone will know why." I reclaim my phone, shoving it deep into my purse. "The scandal will be worse than if I do nothing."

"The scandal will be worse if you do nothing and she releases them anyway."

I close my eyes, seeing Emilio's face when he discovers where I've been—that I've been sneaking out right under his nose. His disappointment. His rage. The way his voice drops to a whisper when he's truly furious.

"He'll kill me, Eva."

"He'll protect you. That's what family does."

"Is it?" The question floats between us. "Because I can't tell the difference anymore."

When we head back into rehearsal, it feels different. Conversations die when I enter rooms. Eyes follow me down corridors, then dart away when I turn. The whispers start before I'm out of earshot.

Alba arrives late, sweeping into the rehearsal hall with theatrical flair. She catches my eye during warm-ups and smiles, and the sardonic way she looks at me feels like poison darts directed at me.

"Places, everyone!" Luca claps his hands, and we scatter to our positions.

I know every note of this aria. I've performed it hundreds of times. But today, the music feels foreign in my throat. My breath comes short. The high notes strain.

Halfway through the climactic passage, the room tilts. My vision blurs at the edges. The orchestra continues, oblivious, as my voice cracks on a note I could sing in my sleep as my head spins and I feel my world rocking on its axis.

The music stops but in my head, the noise is the same—gasps, murmurs, the echo of hushed whispers around me.

"Rosaria?" Luca's voice sounds distant, muffled. "Are you all right?"

I grip the piano for support, but my legs won't hold. The floor rushes up to meet me, but Donata catches my arm before I fall.

"Get her some water," she snaps at someone behind me. "And a chair."

"I'm fine." The words come out breathless, unconvincing. And they're a total lie. I can't even stand up. Something is seriously wrong.

"You are not fine." Donata's weathered face shows genuine concern. "When did you last eat?"

"This morning," I mumble, but I'm already trying to think of when I actually did last eat.

"What did you eat?"

I try to remember. Coffee. Black coffee and nothing else. "I wasn't hungry."

" Madonna mia ." She helps me into a chair. "You're going home. Now."

"I can continue?—"

"You will collapse again. Go home. Rest. Eat food. Come back tomorrow when you're not about to faint on my stage." Luca's orders aggravate me, but maybe he's right. I don't feel well, and if it's nothing more than low blood sugar, I'll be back and better than ever tomorrow.

The walk to my dressing room feels endless. Every step is like slogging through knee-deep water. I change clothes mechanically, my hands still trembling.

Eva appears in the doorway as I'm gathering my things. "How are you feeling?"

"Embarrassed," I tell her. The drama of everything that's happening makes me feel like I can't keep up to begin with, and now this.

"That's not what I meant." She steps inside, closing the door behind her. "When did you last have a proper meal?"

"I eat."

"Coffee doesn't count as food, Rosaria."

I shrug, focusing on folding my rehearsal clothes with unnecessary precision.

"Are you getting enough sleep?"

"I sleep." Her interrogation is happening because she cares, but it annoys me.

"How much water do you drink?"

"Enough."

Eva studies my face like she's my doctor examining my symptoms to diagnose me. "Are you under any unusual stress?"

I almost laugh. "Define unusual."

"More than the normal pressures of your career."

I think of Alba's video. Of Salvatore's eyes. Of the lies I tell Emilio every day. "No more than usual."

"When was your last cycle?"

The question strikes me cold. "What?"

"Your period, Rosaria. When was your last period?"

I stop folding clothes. My mind races backward through weeks that blur together. Rehearsals and performances and stolen nights. When was the last time I bought tampons? When did I last feel that familiar monthly discomfort?

"I... I don't remember."

Eva's expression grows serious. "Think carefully."

I count backward, but the dates won't align. Six weeks. Seven. Maybe eight. My chest tightens.

"It's probably stress," I say quickly. "Stress can affect?—"

"It can. But so can other things."

The words fill the small dressing room. Neither of us speaks them aloud, but they press against my chest until I can barely breathe. That can't happen... What she's insinuating…

"I need to go home."

The drive through Rome's afternoon traffic passes in a haze. Rocco navigates the crowded streets while I stare out the window, seeing nothing. My reflection in the glass looks ghostly, unfamiliar.

"Stop," I say suddenly.

"What?"

"Stop the car. There." I point to a pharmacy on the corner. "I need to buy necessities."

Rocco pulls to the curb. "I'll come with you."

"No." I bite the words out, surprising even myself. "I need tampons. Unless you'd rather help me choose brands?"

His face reddens. "I'll wait here."

Inside the store, fluorescent lights buzz overhead. I find the feminine hygiene aisle and stand there for several minutes, pretending to compare products. Other shoppers pass by, oblivious to what I'm doing or even who I am, for that matter.

Finally, I grab a box of tampons and walk three aisles over. The pregnancy tests sit behind locked glass, their clinical packaging somehow obscene under the harsh lighting. I find a clerk and ask her to unlock the case.

She looks at me carefully, recognition flickering in her eyes. "The Rose of Rome," she whispers.

"Please," I say quietly. "Open the case."

She selects a box at random and hands it to me. I pay in cash, keeping my head down, praying no one else notices.

Back in the car, I clutch both purchases in my purse. Rocco asks no questions, but I catch him watching me in the rearview mirror.

At home after he walks me to my prison cell, formerly called my bedroom, I dismiss him for the evening and lock the door.

The bedroom feels like a tomb, and strangely, I wish Salvatore were here, whispering to me that I could sneak away now.

I pour myself a glass of wine, then remember I shouldn't drink if.

.. It makes me feel despondent for a second.

I set the glass down untouched.

In the bathroom, I read the instructions twice before taking the test. I have to wait three full minutes for the thing to process but it feels like three years. I set the test on the marble counter and count seconds.

One hundred and eighty heartbeats later, I look down.

Two pink lines.

I stare at them until they blur. Then I close my eyes and lean against the cool tile wall, my breath coming in short gasps. This can't be happening to me. I'll never sing again. I may never breathe again if Emilio finds out.

Pregnant.

The word repeats in my mind, growing larger and more impossible with each repetition. Pregnant with Salvatore's child. Pregnant while Alba threatens to destroy me. Pregnant while Emilio expects absolute obedience.

I think of his face when he finds out. The disappointment. The rage. The way his voice will drop to that dangerous whisper.

He'll kill me.

Not metaphorically. Not eventually. He'll actually kill me.

I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the bathroom floor, still holding the test. The pink lines haven't changed. They won't change. This is real.

Somewhere, Salvatore sits in his Neapolitan fortress, unaware that his world is about to shift.

Somewhere, Alba plans her next move.

Somewhere, Emilio conducts his business, trusting that his niece remains the obedient rose he's cultivated.

I close my eyes and try to breathe. Try to think. Try to find a path through this maze that doesn't end in blood.

But the pink lines on the test tell a different story. They speak of consequences and choices I'm not allowed to make. They whisper of a future that belongs to everyone except me.

I am twenty-one years old, pregnant with a rival's child, and completely alone.

The test falls from my numb fingers, clattering against the marble floor.

Two pink lines.

My death sentence in clinical certainty.