Page 32

ROSARIA

U ncle Emilio sits in the front parlor when I enter, his massive frame consuming the antique chair by the window.

The room feels smaller with him in it—every piece of furniture, every carefully placed decoration diminished by his presence.

He doesn't look up when I close the door behind me, doesn't acknowledge the exhaustion carved into my face.

I remain standing by the entrance, my coat dripping rainwater onto the Persian rug, and he says nothing at first, but I can read the accusation on his face and I know what it implies. Outside, the storm continues to rage, but the real tempest waits here in this room.

"Sit," he says finally, his voice calm and controlled.

I take the chair across from him, my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling. The stage makeup feels thick on my skin, a mask I can't remove. Traces of red paint cling to my collarbone, visible above the neckline of my shirt—evidence of tonight's humiliation branded into my flesh.

"I'm done playing games, Rosaria."

His words carry finality, each syllable measured and deliberate. This is not Uncle Emilio the protector, the man who raised me after my father died. This is Don Emilio Costa, head of one of Rome's most powerful families, and I am no longer his beloved niece.

"If you're still seeing Salvatore DeSantis, it ends tonight."

The statement is charged with a threat. There's no question, no room for negotiation. It's a command issued from a man accustomed to absolute obedience.

"And if it doesn't," he continues, leaning forward in his chair, "I will end it myself."

My throat constricts, but I force myself to meet his gaze. The eyes that once looked at me with paternal warmth now hold only cold calculation. I am a problem to be solved, a risk to be eliminated.

"I don't need details to know what's going on," he says. "The missed performances, the mysterious trips, the way you disappear for hours without explanation. You think I'm blind? You think I don't have people watching?"

I want to deny it, to craft some elaborate lie that might buy me time. But the words won't come. The truth sits between us, ugly and undeniable.

"I have nothing to say," I whisper.

A smile crosses his lips, but there's no warmth in it. "Good. Then you understand the situation."

He stands and moves to the window, his back to me as he looks out at the storm. Lightning illuminates his profile, casting deep shadows across his weathered face.

"I built this family from nothing," he says, his voice carrying the weight of decades. "Crawled out of the gutter, fought for every scrap of power, every ounce of respect. I've killed men who threatened what I've built. Good men. Men I called friends."

Another flash of lightning, another rumble of thunder. The storm outside mirrors the one brewing in this room.

"I won't let anyone compromise this family. Not competitors, not rivals, not the police." He turns to face me again. "And not you."

The threat is unspoken but as clear as the day I was born. I am expendable, replaceable. The blood we share means nothing when weighed against the survival of his empire.

"If I have to destroy everything you love to save what I've built, I'll do it without hesitation. My bullets aren't partial to whose blood they spill."

My hand moves instinctively to my stomach, a protective gesture I hope he doesn't notice. The life growing inside me remains my secret, but for how long? How many days before someone talks, before the wrong photograph surfaces, before Uncle Emilio learns the full extent of my betrayal?

"Do we understand each other?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"Then go upstairs. Clean yourself up. Tomorrow, we'll discuss your future arrangements."

I rise from the chair on unsteady legs and walk toward the door. Each step feels heavier than the last, weighted down by the knowledge that this conversation has changed everything. I am no longer under his protection—I am under his threat.

The stairs creak beneath my feet as I climb to the second floor. My bedroom door closes behind me with a soft click, and I turn the lock with trembling fingers. The thin wood of the door is a weak barrier between me and the man downstairs who would kill me to preserve his legacy.

I sink onto the bed and press both hands against my stomach. The gesture is becoming automatic, a constant reminder of the secret I carry. The child—Salvatore's child—grows inside me while the world outside grows more dangerous by the hour.

The mirror across the room reflects a stranger. Paint streaks my hair, makeup runs down my cheeks, and my eyes hold a wildness I've never seen before. This is what desperation looks like, what fear does to a person's face.

Uncle Emilio's words echo in my memory. His bullets aren't partial to whose blood they spill. The threat extends beyond me now, beyond Salvatore. It encompasses the innocent life I carry, the future I never planned but now find myself willing to die for.

I move to the window and look out at the storm. The Costa estate spreads below me, surrounded by walls and gates that once made me feel safe. Now they feel like prison bars, keeping me trapped while danger closes in from all sides.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number?—

Unknown 11:29 PM: The car will be ready at midnight. Back entrance. Come alone.

I stare at the message, my pulse quickening. Salvatore's people, trying to extract me before Uncle Emilio makes good on his threat. But how did they know? And how can I get past the security, past the surveillance that monitors every corner of this property?

The clock on the wall shows eleven thirty. Thirty minutes to decide between the devil I know and the one I don't. Between the family that raised me and the man who might destroy me. Between safety and love, if what Salvatore and I have can even be called that.

I delete the message and move toward the closet.

My hands shake as I pull out dark clothes, practical shoes, a jacket that won't show in the shadows.

The movements feel automatic, divorced from conscious thought.

My body has made the choice even as my mind continues to wrestle with the consequences.

The house settles around me as I prepare to leave. Somewhere below, Uncle Emilio might be planning my death. Somewhere in Naples, Salvatore might be planning his revenge. And somewhere in the space between them, I carry the secret that will decide all our fates.

Eleven forty-five. I slip out of my room and move toward the servants' staircase, avoiding the main corridors where security cameras track every movement.

The back entrance is three floors down, through the kitchen and past the laundry room.

A route I learned as a child, playing hide and seek in a house that now feels like a mausoleum.

The kitchen is empty, but I can hear voices from the front of the house. Uncle Emilio's men, making their rounds, checking locks and monitoring the perimeter.

The service door creaks open and rain immediately soaks through my jacket, cold and sharp against my skin. I can see the car waiting in the shadows beyond the garden, its engine running, exhaust visible in the frigid air.

"Miss Costa."

I freeze. The calm, professional voice comes from behind me. One of Uncle Emilio's security team, probably making his rounds. My heart hammers against my ribs as I turn slowly.

"Going somewhere?"

The guard stands silhouetted in the doorway, his hand resting on his weapon. I recognize him—Marco, one of the newer recruits. Young enough to be uncertain, experienced enough to be dangerous.

"I needed air," I say, hoping my voice doesn't betray the terror coursing through my veins. "The storm... it's beautiful."

He studies me for a long moment, taking in my dark clothes, my nervous posture. His eyes narrow with suspicion, but he doesn't draw his weapon.

"Your uncle wouldn't want you outside alone. Not after tonight."

"I'll only be a moment."

"I should escort you back inside."

The car in the shadows revs its engine, a subtle signal. Now or never. I take a step toward the garden, toward freedom, toward the unknown.

"Please," I whisper. "Just five minutes."

Marco hesitates. In that moment of uncertainty, I run.

My feet slip on the wet stone, but I keep moving. Behind me, Marco shouts for backup, his voice carrying across the estate grounds. Lights begin to flicker on in the house, illuminating the windows as the alarm spreads.

The car door opens as I approach, and Bruno's strong hands pull me inside. The vehicle lurches forward before I'm fully seated, tires spinning on the wet gravel as we race toward the main gate.

"Drive," I gasp, pulling out my phone with shaking hands. "Drive faster."

I dial Salvatore's number as we clear the estate walls. The phone rings once, twice, three times. Behind us, I can see headlights giving chase, Uncle Emilio's men mobilizing to bring back their escaped prisoner.

"Answer," I whisper into the storm. "Please answer."

The phone continues to ring as we disappear into the Roman night, carrying me toward a future I can't see, away from a past I can never escape.