Page 34

ROSARIA

I don't want to leave this bed. The sheets are twisted around my legs, warm from our bodies, and Salvatore's hand rests across my stomach with a possessiveness that should frighten me but doesn't. His breathing is steady against my shoulder, each exhale brushing against my bare skin.

For the first time in months, I feel suspended.

Protected. The weight of his arm anchors me to this moment, to this feeling of safety that I've never experienced before.

Not with Emilio watching my every move, not with the opera board controlling my career, not with the constant scrutiny that has defined my entire life.

Here, in this bed, I am not The Rose of Rome. I am not a Costa. I am not a pawn in anyone's game. I am simply Rosaria, wrapped in Egyptian cotton and morning silence with a man who looks at me like I belong to him and him alone.

The knock at the door destroys everything.

Three sharp raps against the wood, followed by the turn of the handle. I sit up immediately, clutching the sheet to my chest as the door swings open. Salvatore is already moving, his body coiled and alert as he rolls out of bed and grabs his shirt from the floor.

Gianni steps into the room without waiting for permission.

His eyes find Salvatore and stay there, never once glancing in my direction.

There's a courtesy in his blindness that I appreciate, but it doesn't stop the heat from flooding my cheeks as I look at Salvatore's nude backside and cover my chest with the sheet.

"We have a problem," Gianni says, his voice flat and businesslike.

Salvatore pulls his shirt over his head, the fabric settling across his shoulders as he moves toward the door.

He's barefoot, his hair mussed from sleep, but there's nothing vulnerable about him now.

The man who held me so gently moments ago has disappeared, replaced by the boss who commands fear and respect in equal measure.

"What kind of problem?" Salvatore asks.

Gianni's jaw tightens. "Emilio knows about the baby."

The warmth drains from my body, leaving me cold and hollow. My hand moves instinctively to my stomach, fingers splaying across the barely-there curve that has become the center of my world.

"How?" Salvatore's voice is deadly quiet.

"The maid..." Gianni's eyes flick to meet mine. "Found the test in the trash."

My heart sinks as I realize they've gone through my things since I ran out again.

"What else does he know?" Salvatore moves closer to Gianni, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow makes it more menacing.

"Everything. The dates, the timeline. He's putting the pieces together."

My throat closes. The room tilts sideways, and I grip the sheet tighter, using it as an anchor to keep myself from falling apart.

Emilio knows. He knows about the baby, which means he knows about Salvatore and me.

He knows that his control over me has slipped, that I have betrayed everything he taught me about loyalty and family.

"What do we do now?" The words come out barely audible in the heavy silence.

Salvatore turns to me, his green eyes softening for just a moment. "You let me handle it."

"Salvatore—"

"No." He moves to the bed, sitting on the edge as he reaches for my face. His fingers cup my cheek, thumb brushing across my skin with infinite gentleness. "You don't worry about this. You don't think about it. You take care of yourself and the baby, and I'll take care of everything else."

He leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead, a kiss that feels like a promise and a goodbye all at once. Then he's standing, moving toward the door where Gianni waits.

"Close the door behind you," I call after them.

Gianni nods once and pulls the door shut as they leave. The click of the latch echoes in the sudden silence, and I'm alone with my thoughts and the knowledge that my uncle now knows my greatest secret.

I sit in the bed for several minutes, staring at the closed door and trying to process what has happened.

My life has become a chess game where I am both a player and a piece, moved around by men who think they know what's best for me.

But this baby—this tiny life growing inside me—is mine.

It's the one thing that belongs to me and me alone.

Finally, I force myself to stand. My legs are unsteady as I walk to the bathroom, my bare feet silent against the cold marble floor. The room is still warm from last night's bath, still smells faintly of lavender and steam.

I turn on the faucet and reach for my toothbrush, thinking that I need to maintain some semblance of normalcy. But as soon as I squeeze the toothpaste onto the bristles, my stomach lurches violently.

I drop the toothbrush and fall to my knees in front of the toilet, retching until there's nothing left but bile and tears. The morning sickness has been getting worse, more frequent, more intense. But this feels different. This feels like my body is trying to purge itself of fear.

I sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and the tears come in earnest. They burn down my cheeks relentlessly, carrying with them months of suppressed emotion and terror.

I think about my life before all of this. The careful routine of rehearsals and performances, the controlled interactions with critics and patrons, the quiet evenings in my apartment with nothing but piano music and black coffee. It was lonely, but it was predictable. It was safe.

I wish it could have been different. I wish I could have met Salvatore under different circumstances, in a different world where my last name didn't carry the weight of blood and violence. I wish I could have chosen him freely, without coercion or manipulation or the constant threat of discovery.

But even as I wish for a different past, I can't bring myself to regret what has happened. The baby growing inside me is not a mistake or a consequence. It's a miracle, a piece of hope in a world that has shown me precious little of it.

And Salvatore... despite everything, despite the way this started, I can't regret him either. He sees me in a way that no one else has, looks at me like I'm more than just a pretty voice or a useful tool. He makes me feel alive in ways I never knew were possible.

The problem is that I never had a chance to be myself before this. Emilio has controlled every aspect of my life since I was a child, shaping me into the perfect public face for his criminal empire. I have no idea who I really am beneath the polish and the performance.

I stand slowly, legs still shaking, and splash cold water on my face. The reflection in the mirror looks back at me with red-rimmed eyes and pale skin, but there's something else there too. Something that wasn't there before.

Determination.

I don't want them to fight. I don't want this baby to be born into a world of violence and retribution. But I also won't let anyone—not Emilio, not the opera board, not even Salvatore—make decisions about my life without my input.

I am done being moved around like a chess piece. I am done being protected and controlled and managed.

It's time to take control of my own game.