Page 31

SALVATORE

B runo places the tablet on my desk with the care of a man handling explosives. The screen shows a frozen frame from last night's performance—Rosaria in ivory silk, her mouth open in song, unaware of what's about to destroy her.

"It's all over the internet," he says quietly. "Every news site, every social media platform. They're calling it the scandal of the season."

I press play and watch the horror unfold.

Rosaria's voice fills my office, pure and crystalline, carrying across the theater with the power that first captivated me.

Then comes the scream, the charge from the orchestra pit, the splash of red across her chest. The camera shakes as whoever's filming tries to get a better angle, but I can see everything—the shock on her face, the way she freezes center stage, the chaos erupting around her.

The woman who throws the paint screams accusations about whores and traitors, about Mafia connections, every word designed to cut deep. The security guards drag her away, but the damage spreads through the audience faster than blood through water.

I watch it again, studying every frame, every angle. The way Rosaria's hands come up to touch the red staining her gown. The flash of cameras capturing her humiliation for posterity. The curtain falling on what might be the end of her career.

The tablet flies across the room and shatters against the wall. Bruno doesn't flinch, but his eyes follow the trajectory of my anger.

"Find out everything about the woman who did this," I say, my voice deadly calm. "Alba Sorrenti. I want to know where she lives, where she eats, where she sleeps. I want to know who paid her and how much."

"Already on it," Bruno replies. "But Boss, the police arrested her at the scene. She's in custody."

"Then she'll have to wait." I reach for my phone and dial the opera house. The receptionist puts me through to three different departments before finally connecting me to Luca Romano's office. His secretary tells me he's unavailable.

"Tell him it's Salvatore DeSantis calling about last night's incident."

There is a pause but when she returns, she sounds firmer in her resolve. "I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Romano is not taking calls at this time."

I end the call and grab my jacket. "We're going to Rome."

The drive takes two hours, every minute stretching my patience thinner.

Bruno handles the car with his usual precision, but I can feel the tension radiating from him.

He knows what this means—that we're crossing into hostile territory, that Emilio's people will be watching for exactly this kind of move.

The Teatro dell'Opera di Roma sits in the heart of the city, its neoclassical facade hiding the corruption within.

But today it looks different. Police cars line the street, officers stationed at every entrance.

The media circus has attracted more than just journalists—the carabinieri are treating this as a security threat.

"They're expecting us," Bruno observes as we park across the street.

I study the scene through the windshield. Two uniformed officers guard the main entrance, their hands resting casually on their weapons. A third man in plainclothes watches from the steps, his eyes scanning the crowd with professional alertness.

"Then we don't disappoint them."

We cross the street together, moving through the crowd of reporters and curious onlookers.

The officers at the door step forward as we approach, their postures shifting from alert to ready.

But Luca Romano appears before they can act, emerging from the lobby with his hands raised in a gesture of false diplomacy.

"Mr. DeSantis," he says, his voice carrying just far enough for the nearby reporters to hear. "I'm afraid this isn't a good time."

"I want to see her," I reply, keeping my voice level despite the fury burning in my chest.

"Miss Costa is not available. She's... recovering from last night's incident." Luca's eyes dart toward the officers flanking us. "Perhaps we could arrange a meeting at a more appropriate time."

"Now is appropriate."

Luca steps closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "If you don't leave immediately, these officers will remove you. The building is under police protection following last night's security breach. Any attempt to force your way inside will result in your arrest."

Behind Luca, I catch sight of a familiar face.

Rocco Costa stands in the lobby shadows, his bulk unmistakable even in the dim light.

Emilio's enforcer watches us through the glass doors, his hand resting inside his jacket.

Bruno notices him too, his posture shifting subtly as he prepares for trouble.

"This conversation isn't over," I tell Luca, but I'm looking at Rocco as I say it.

"I hope it is," Luca replies. "For everyone's sake."

We turn and walk back toward the street, but I can feel eyes tracking our movement.

The reporters surge forward, shouting questions about my relationship with Rosaria, about the connection between last night's attack and the ongoing Mafia war.

Bruno creates space between us and the cameras, his presence enough to keep them at a respectful distance.

We're halfway across the street when Rocco emerges from the building. He moves with deceptive casualness, his hands empty but ready. The police officers at the door don't stop him—they know who he is, know whose protection he carries.

"Salvatore," he calls out, his voice carrying the weight of decades in Emilio's service. "A word."

Bruno's hand moves toward his jacket, but I shake my head. This is exactly what Emilio wants—a public confrontation, cameras rolling, police watching. A reason to escalate this war into the open.

"Say what you came to say, Rocco."

He stops ten feet away, close enough to be heard but far enough to maintain the illusion of civilized discourse. "My boss sends his regards. And his advice."

"I'm listening."

"Back off. Walk away from the girl and return to Naples. Forget whatever ideas you have about protecting her or building a future together. This is your only warning."

The crowd around us has gone quiet, sensing the tension crackling between us. Cameras continue to flash, but the reporters have stopped shouting questions. Even they recognize the danger in this moment.

"And if I don't?"

Rocco's smile is cold and empty. "Then you die. And everyone who stands with you dies. Emilio's patience has limits, and you've reached them."

Bruno steps forward, his hand now resting openly on his weapon. "Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise," Rocco replies, his eyes never leaving mine. "Walk away, Salvatore. While you still can."

He turns and walks back toward the opera house, confident in his message and his protection. The police officers watch him go without interference, their allegiance clear. But as he reaches the steps, Bruno calls out.

"Tell your boss we'll be in touch."

Rocco stops, his massive frame tensing. When he turns back to face us, the mask of civility has slipped. "You want to play? Let's play."

His hand moves inside his jacket, and Bruno's gun clears leather in response. Shouts erupt from the crowd as people dive for cover behind parked cars. The police officers draw their weapons, but their targets aren't clear—too many civilians, too much chaos.

I grab Bruno's arm and pull him toward our car as the first shots ring out. Rocco's bullet sparks off the pavement where I was standing a second before. Bruno returns fire, his shots shattering the opera house windows as Rocco dives behind a police car.

We reach our vehicle as sirens begin to wail. Bruno starts the engine while I keep my weapon trained on the opera house entrance. More shots follow us as we pull away from the curb, our rear window exploding in a shower of glass.

"North," I shout over the sound of squealing tires and gunfire. "Get us to the highway."

Bruno takes the first right at speed, the car sliding sideways before finding traction. Behind us, police cars are already giving chase, their sirens growing louder as they close the distance. The narrow Roman streets work against us—too many corners, too many opportunities for ambush.

"There." I point toward an alley between two apartment buildings. "Cut through."

Bruno yanks the wheel hard left, the car scraping against brick walls as we squeeze through the gap. We emerge onto a parallel street, momentarily clear of pursuit. But I can hear them regrouping, radio chatter coordinating the search.

"The ring road," Bruno says, reading my thoughts. "Once we're on the highway, we can disappear."

We make it to the on-ramp as the first police car rounds the corner behind us. Bruno floors the accelerator, pushing our car past its limits as we merge into traffic. The engine screams in protest, but we're pulling away now, gaining distance on our pursuers.

Twenty minutes later, we exit onto a service road that leads to an abandoned industrial complex. Bruno kills the engine and we sit in the sudden silence, both of us breathing hard from the adrenaline crash.

"They won't let you near her," Bruno says finally. "Emilio's locked her down tight. And after today..."

"After today, she's in more danger than ever." I check my phone, hoping for a message from Rosaria, but there's nothing. "Emilio sees her as a liability now. The scandal, the attention—it's exactly what he's spent years trying to avoid."

"So what do we do?"

I look out across the empty lot, calculating distances and probabilities. The war with Emilio was always inevitable, but I'd hoped to fight it on my terms, at a time of my choosing. That luxury is gone now.

"We set a trap," I say. "Force Emilio into the open. Make him choose between protecting his reputation and protecting his niece."

"And if he chooses his reputation?"

His question charges the air with electricity and I think about Rosaria standing on that stage, paint dripping from her gown, her world collapsing around her. I think about the fear in her voice when she called me, about how I wasn't there when she needed me most.

"Then I'll show him the difference between reputation and reality," I reply. "And he'll learn why they call it a blood debt."