Page 3

ROSARIA

M y hands shake as I remove the final bobby pin from my hair, letting the dark waves fall loose around my shoulders.

The dressing room mirror reflects a face I barely recognize—makeup smeared at the corners, lipstick worn away by three hours of Puccini, exhaustion etched in the shadows beneath my eyes.

The performance was flawless. I know this the way a pianist knows when their fingers find every correct key, the way a dancer knows when their body moves in perfect harmony with music.

My voice soared through every aria, each note placed with surgical precision.

The audience felt it too—their silence during Vissi d'arte was absolutely reverent.

But something was wrong tonight, a presence in the theater that didn't belong, a disturbance in the careful balance of power that keeps me safe on this stage.

I reach for the cold cream, ready to scrub away Tosca's tragic mask, when the knock comes. Three sharp, confident, and demanding raps against the dressing room door.

"Miss Costa." The voice is unfamiliar, accented with something Southern, not Roman. "We need to speak with you."

Uncle Emilio must have sent them. He often uses men I don't recognize when conducting business that requires discretion. The performance must have impressed someone important, or perhaps there's family business that can't wait until morning.

"One moment."

I wrap my silk robe tighter around the costume beneath, checking my reflection once more. Even exhausted, I need to present the proper image. Uncle Emilio values appearances above all else.

The lock clicks open softly, and I pull the door open expecting to see familiar faces—men whose names I know, whose loyalty to our family runs back generations.

Instead, two strangers stand in my doorway.

Both wear dark suits that fit too well to be anything but expensive.

The older one has silver at his temples and eyes that catalog everything—my appearance, the room behind me, potential escape routes.

The younger one keeps his hands loose at his sides, ready.

"Miss Costa." The older man steps forward without invitation, forcing me to retreat into my own dressing room. His companion follows, closing the door behind them with deliberate care. "Thank you for seeing us."

"I'm sorry, but who are you? I was expecting?—"

"Someone else?" The voice comes from the door as it opens again. A third man enters from the hallway and everything inside me goes cold.

He's younger than Uncle Emilio's usual associates, perhaps mid-thirties, with dark hair slicked back and green eyes that study me with uncomfortable intensity.

His suit is perfectly tailored, his shoes polished to mirror brightness.

Everything about his appearance suggests money and power, but not the kind that comes with old Roman names.

"Salvatore DeSantis." He extends his hand as if we're meeting at a dinner party rather than in my locked dressing room after midnight. "It's an honor to finally meet Rome's most celebrated voice."

The name hits me with the force of cold water. DeSantis—the Neapolitan family that's been pressing into Roman territory, challenging Uncle Emilio's control over shipping routes and protection rackets. The enemy is sitting in my private sanctuary, speaking my name with casual familiarity.

I don't take his offered hand. "You're not supposed to be here."

"And yet here I am." His smile carries no warmth. "Your performance tonight was extraordinary. Truly exceptional artistry."

"Thank you. Now please leave."

"I've heard recordings, of course. Reviews in the papers. But hearing you sing in person..." He pauses, moving closer to my vanity table, his fingers trailing across the bottles of makeup remover and cold cream. "It's a religious experience. Transcendent."

The compliment should please me. Instead, it makes my skin crawl. There's something possessive in the way he speaks, as if my voice is something he's already claimed.

"Mr. DeSantis, I don't know how you got backstage, but this is highly inappropriate. My uncle?—"

"Your uncle isn't here." He settles into the chair beside my vanity, making himself comfortable in my space. "It's just us. And I have a proposition for you."

"I'm not interested in any propositions."

"You haven't heard it yet." His gaze moves from my face to the costume still visible beneath my robe, then back up again with deliberate slowness. "I want a private performance."

The words hang in the air between us, their meaning unmistakable. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am in my own dressing room.

"That's not something I do."

"It could be."

"No." The word comes out with sharp, visceral anger. "I perform on stage, for audiences. Not in private rooms for individual patrons."

His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in the atmosphere. The air grows heavier, charged with a tension that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

"Miss Costa, I think you misunderstand the nature of our conversation. This isn't a negotiation."

"Then what is it?"

"A courtesy. I'm extending you the opportunity to accommodate my request willingly. If you decline, I'll simply keep sending people until you accept."

The threat is delivered with the same pleasant tone he used to compliment my performance. This is how men in his position operate—violence wrapped in silk, brutality disguised as business.

I move toward the door, but the two men are already positioned there, their bodies blocking my exit without seeming to try. Not aggressive, but unmistakably present.

"I need to leave."

"Of course. After we've reached an understanding."

"There's nothing to understand. I don't perform privately. Not for you, not for anyone."

He rises from the chair, crossing the small space between us in two measured steps. Close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle, designed to complement rather than overwhelm. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.

"Your uncle has done an excellent job protecting you," he says, his voice dropping to a conversational murmur.

"Creating this perfect little bubble where you can pretend the world operates according to rules of civility and artistic merit.

But bubbles burst, Miss Costa. And when they do, reality rushes in. "

His hand rises toward my throat, not fast enough to be an attack, but deliberate enough to be unmistakably threatening. I force myself to remain still as his fingers hover just above my skin, close enough to feel their warmth.

"Your voice," he continues, "is your most valuable asset. It would be a shame if something happened to compromise it."

The threat is clear, but there's something else in his touch—a hesitation that suggests he's not entirely comfortable with this approach. Good. Uncertainty is something I can use.

"If you damage my voice," I say, keeping my tone level despite the panic clawing at my chest, "you'll never hear it again. And from the way you talked about tonight's performance, that would be a significant loss for you."

His hand drops, but he doesn't step back. The space between us feels charged, dangerous. "Intelligent. I appreciate that quality."

"Then appreciate this. I'll sing for you once. One song, one time. After that, we never meet again."

"Once might not be enough."

"It will have to be."

We stare at each other in silence, both of us calculating the angles of this negotiation.

He wants something from me that goes beyond a simple performance—I can see it in the way his gaze lingers on my face, the careful attention he pays to my reactions.

But he's also smart enough to recognize that pushing too hard, too fast might destroy what he's trying to possess.

"One performance," he agrees finally. "But I choose the song."

"Nothing that will strain my voice. Nothing that requires extensive preparation."

"Agreed. Tomorrow evening. I'll send a car."

"Where?"

"That will be communicated to you."

He steps back, finally giving me room to breathe. The two men move away from the door at some invisible signal, clearing my path to escape my own dressing room.

"Miss Costa." He pauses at the threshold, his hand on the door handle. "Thank you for being reasonable."

I don't respond. There's nothing reasonable about any of this, and we both know it. The door closes behind them, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of expensive cologne and the echo of veiled threats.

I sink into my vanity chair, my legs suddenly unsteady. The mirror reflects the same exhausted face as before, but now I can see something else in my expression—a hardness that wasn't there an hour ago.

My hands reach for my phone, then stop. Uncle Emilio needs to know about this immediately. The DeSantis presence in Rome is no longer theoretical—it's sitting in my dressing room, making demands of our family. This is the kind of territorial violation that starts wars.

But first, I need to get through tomorrow night. One song, I promised. One performance for a man whose interest in my voice seems to extend far beyond artistic appreciation.

The cold cream sits where I left it on the vanity, waiting to wash away the last traces of tonight's triumph. But as I begin scrubbing Tosca's makeup from my skin, I realize that some transformations can't be reversed so easily.

Tonight, I learned that my carefully constructed world has cracks in its foundation. Tomorrow, I'll discover just how deep those cracks run.