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ROSARIA

T he stage lights burn against my skin as I reach the climax of my aria.

The Teatro dell'Opera di Roma holds its breath around me, two thousand souls suspended in the darkness beyond the footlights.

This is a secondary role—Micaela in Carmen , not the lead I should be singing—but I pour everything into it anyway.

My voice rises and falls with the melody, carrying the character's desperate hope into the vast auditorium.

I am halfway through the final phrase when the scream tears through the silence.

A woman's voice, raw and furious, cuts across the orchestra like a blade. The musicians falter, their instruments wavering as confusion ripples through the theater. I continue singing, trying to hold the performance together, but my eyes search the darkness for the source of the disturbance.

Then I see her.

Alba Sorrenti charges toward the stage from the orchestra pit, her face twisted with rage. Security moves to intercept her, but she's already too close. Her arm comes up, and I see the container in her hand—red and viscous, aimed directly at me.

The paint hits my chest and spreads across the ivory silk of my gown.

Thick crimson streams down the bodice, pooling at my feet on the pristine stage floor.

For a moment, I think it's blood. My mind reels, expecting pain, expecting the warm rush of life leaving my body.

But there's only the cold shock of humiliation as the red substance continues to drip from my costume.

"Whore!" Alba screams, her voice carrying across the stunned theater. "Traitor! You think you can steal what belongs to me?"

The security guards reach her now, their hands closing around her arms as she struggles against them. But her voice continues to ring out, each word a dagger thrown at my reputation.

"She's a Mafia princess! A Costa! She doesn't belong on this stage!"

The audience erupts. Two thousand people surge to their feet, some fleeing toward the exits, others pressing forward to get a better look at the chaos.

Camera flashes explode from the boxes where critics and photographers sit, capturing every moment of my degradation.

The orchestra has stopped playing entirely now, the musicians staring up at me with mixtures of horror and fascination.

I stand frozen in the center of the stage, paint dripping from my gown, my voice silenced by shock.

The theater around me has become a circus, a spectacle of scandal and shame.

Years of training, of discipline, of carefully crafted perfection—all of it crumbling in real time before an audience of strangers.

The curtain begins to descend, mercifully cutting off the view from the auditorium. But I can still hear them out there—the shouts, the murmur of excited conversation, the sound of my career disintegrating note by note.

"Rosaria!" Eva appears at my side, her makeup kit forgotten as she reaches for me. "Oh, God, are you hurt?"

I look down at the red covering my chest and realize I'm shaking. The paint has a chemical smell that burns my nostrils, mixing with the metallic taste of fear in my mouth. My hands come up to touch the mess on my gown, and my fingers come away stained crimson.

"I thought it was blood," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the chaos beyond the curtain.

Eva takes my arm and guides me toward the wings, away from the stagehands who are already working to clean up the mess. The other performers give us a wide berth, their eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and relief that they're not the ones caught in this disaster.

"Come on," Eva says, her voice gentle but firm. "Let's get you cleaned up."

The dressing room feels like a sanctuary after the madness of the stage.

Eva helps me out of the ruined gown, the silk heavy with paint and humiliation.

The red has soaked through to my skin, staining my chest and arms with streaks of color that look disturbingly alive under the harsh fluorescent lights.

I stand at the sink in my undergarments, scrubbing at my skin with soap and water. The paint comes off slowly, reluctantly, leaving behind raw patches where I've rubbed too hard. Eva works beside me, using makeup remover to tackle the stubborn spots around my collarbones.

"She planned this," I say, watching the red swirl down the drain. "Alba knew exactly when to strike, exactly how to cause the most damage."

Eva's jaw is tight with anger. "She wanted to destroy you in front of everyone. The cameras, the critics—they got exactly what she wanted them to see."

My reflection stares back at me from the mirror above the sink. My face is pale, my eyes wide with shock. Red streaks still cling to my hairline despite our efforts. I look fragile, broken—everything I've spent years refusing to be.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Eva moves to answer it, and Luca Romano steps into the room. The artistic director's face is grave, his usual polished demeanor replaced by barely contained fury.

"Rosaria," he says, his voice carefully controlled. "Are you injured?"

"No," I reply, reaching for a towel to cover myself. "Just humiliated."

Luca's expression softens slightly, but the anger remains in his eyes. "What happened out there... It's inexcusable. We're pressing charges against Miss Sorrenti, of course. She'll never work in this industry again."

"That won't undo the damage," I say, wrapping the towel around my shoulders. "Half the audience had their phones out. This will be all over the internet within the hour."

"Which brings me to why I'm here." Luca's voice hardens again. "The board is meeting tomorrow morning. There will be questions about your... associations. About whether the opera house can continue to weather the storms that seem to follow you."

The words feel colder than the paint that covered my skin. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that even your uncle's influence has limits. If we can't sell tickets because audiences are afraid of what might happen at a Rosaria Costa performance, then we can't afford to keep you on the roster."

Eva steps forward, her face flushed with anger. "She's the most talented soprano you have. One incident doesn't?—"

"This isn't the first incident," Luca cuts her off. "The canceled performances, the mysterious illnesses, the rumors about Naples—it all adds up. The board is losing patience."

I close my eyes, feeling everything collapsing around me. The opera house has been my sanctuary, the one place where my voice mattered more than my name. Without it, I'm nothing more than another Costa woman, another piece on the board of men who think they own me.

"I understand," I say quietly.

Luca's expression softens again. "I hope this resolves itself, Rosaria. Truly. You're a remarkable talent. But talent isn't enough if it comes with too high a price."

He leaves us alone in the dressing room, and I sink into the chair before my vanity. The mirror reflects a stranger—a woman covered in paint residue, her career hanging by threads, her future uncertain.

I reach for my phone with trembling fingers and dial Salvatore's number. It rings once, twice, three times before going to voicemail. His voice, confident and controlled, instructs me to leave a message.

"It's me," I whisper into the phone. "I need... I need to talk to you. Please."

I end the call and stare at the device in my hands. Even he isn't here when I need him most. The man who claims to want me, to protect me, to want to build a future with me—nowhere to be found when my world is falling apart.

Eva gently helps me into street clothes. The shirt sticks to the damp patches on my skin where we couldn't quite remove all the paint. I'll be finding traces of red for days, reminders of tonight's humiliation embedded in my pores.

The theater is emptying as we make our way toward the stage door. Staff members avoid my gaze, their discomfort palpable. Word travels fast in places where reputations are currency, and mine has just been devalued beyond repair.

The rain has started by the time I reach the street.

Cold drops mix with the residual paint remover on my skin, creating new rivulets of pink that run down my neck.

I pull my coat tighter and walk toward home, each step taking me farther from the sanctuary I've lost and closer to whatever punishment awaits.

The estate looms ahead, its windows glowing warmly in the darkness. But there's no warmth waiting for me inside. I can feel it as I climb the stairs—the tension, the anger, the disappointment that will greet me at my own door.

Uncle Emilio sits in my living room when I enter, his massive frame filling the chair by the window. He doesn't look up when I come in, doesn't acknowledge the paint still clinging to my hair or the tears I've finally allowed to fall.

"Uncle," I begin, but he raises a hand to silence me.

When he finally meets my eyes, I see something there that terrifies me more than any scream from the audience, any splash of red paint across my chest. I see the look of a man who has reached the end of his patience, who has run out of second chances to give.

The rain continues to fall outside the windows, washing the city clean while I stand dripping in my own living room, waiting for judgment from the only family I have left.