Page 36 of The Rose’s Thorns (The Roma Syndicate #4)

ROSARIA

I need to sing. The desperation burns in my chest, consuming me.

I've been away from the opera house for a week, and already I feel myself disappearing.

The woman who commanded stages across Europe is fading, replaced by someone I don't recognize—someone defined entirely by the men who claim to protect her.

"I have to go back," I tell Salvatore over breakfast. He's reading reports, coffee growing cold at his elbow. "One last time."

His green eyes lift from the papers. "Absolutely not."

"I need to remind myself of who I am."

He sets down the documents, studying my face with that intense focus that makes my pulse quicken. "You know who you are."

"Do I?" The words come out sharp and angry. "Because right now, I feel invisible."

A long moment passes. His jaw works silently, weighing risks I can't calculate. Finally, he nods once. "Bruno goes with you with two additional guards. You can sing for one hour, then you come back."

Relief floods through me. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet, Rosa..." His eyes darken and he shakes his head. "You know I only want to protect you."

I'm too overjoyed to notice the tension weaving across his forehead. Rising, I press a kiss to his forehead and whisper, "Thank you," in his ear again, then rush off to dress.

The drive to Rome takes forty minutes. Bruno sits in the front passenger seat, eyes constantly scanning the mirrors. Two more men follow in a separate car, close enough to intervene but far enough to avoid drawing attention.

The Teatro dell'Opera di Roma stands empty in the late morning sun. Most of the cast and crew won't arrive until evening rehearsal. Perfect for what I need.

Luca meets me at the stage door, his weathered face creased with worry. "Rosaria, where the hell have you been!"

Behind him, Donata emerges from the shadows. My vocal coach looks older than when I saw her last, silver hair pulled back severely. Her eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion.

"The board has been asking questions," she says, "about your absences. About the rumors."

I push past them both, moving toward the stage. "Let them ask." This is my cathedral, my sanctuary. The only place where I've ever felt truly alive.

I walk to center stage and close my eyes. The familiar silence presses against my eardrums. Then I open my mouth and let my voice fill the void, and even without accompaniment it sounds heavenly.

The aria flows from my throat without conscious thought—Puccini's O Mio Babbino Caro . The notes soar toward the painted ceiling, pure and crystalline. For the first time in days, I remember what it feels like to be powerful. To command attention through beauty rather than fear.

The melody swells around me, bouncing off marble columns and velvet curtains. My voice climbs higher, stronger, until it seems to shake the very foundations of the building. This is who I am. This is what they can never take from me.

Behind me, Donata begins the piano accompaniment. Her fingers find the keys with muscle memory, supporting my voice with rich harmonies. Luca watches from the wings, tears streaming down his cheeks.

The final note holds for eight perfect seconds before fading into silence.

Then the spell breaks.

Heavy footsteps echo from the lobby, accompanied by raised voices. The board chairman, Maestro Ricci, strides down the center aisle with two board members flanking him. His face is flushed with panic and rage.

"What the hell is she doing here?" he shouts.

Luca steps forward. "Maestro, please?—"

"Get her out. Now." Ricci climbs the steps to the stage, pointing an accusatory finger at me. "The board has been threatened. Death threats. All because of her and this mess she's created."

My blood turns to ice. "What threats?"

"Don't play innocent." His voice cracks with hysteria. "Emilio Costa is blaming you for the attacks. Three of his businesses burned to the ground last night. He says it's your fault for whoring yourself to his enemies."

I stagger backward, one hand pressed against my stomach. "That's?—"

"You are officially suspended from all productions, effective immediately." Ricci pulls a folded paper from his jacket. "By order of the board of directors, your contract is terminated."

The document flutters to the floor between us. My life's work, reduced to legal text on expensive paper.

Donata's hands freeze over the piano keys. Luca makes a strangled sound of protest. But I can't speak, can't breathe, can't think beyond the crushing weight of loss.

Bruno appears at my side, his presence solid and reassuring. "Time to go, Miss."

I let him guide me off the stage, away from the ruins of my career.

The exit door closes behind us with a final, damning click, and all I can do is stumble along beside him.

I feel numb as he ushers me into the car, as he climbs into the driver's seat and as the car rolls out onto the road.

I stare out the window at roads I've memorized, homes, farms, meadows.

.. Nothing feels like home anymore. Nowhere feels safe.

Everything I've worked for since childhood is gone. The Rose of Rome is dead.

When we return to Salvatore's estate, I go straight to the bathroom and lock the door. The tile is cold against my bare feet as I sink to the floor, back pressed against the bathtub. The tears come in violent waves, torn from my chest with each ragged breath.

My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, behind my eyes. The baby flutters inside me, responding to my distress with tiny movements that make me cry harder.

I don't know how long I sit there. Time moves strangely when your world collapses. Eventually, I hear footsteps in the bedroom, followed by a gentle knock on the bathroom door.

"Rosaria." Salvatore's voice is soft, careful. "Let me in."

I can't form words, can barely draw breath between sobs.

The door opens anyway. He must have picked the lock or forced it. He kneels beside me on the cold tile and pulls me into his arms without asking what's wrong. He already knows.

His embrace is warm, solid, anchoring me to earth when I feel ready to float away. I press my face against his chest and breathe in his scent.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs against my hair. "I'm so fucking sorry."

I tilt my head back to look at him. His green eyes are dark with fury and regret—maybe—or guilt.

"It's not your fault," I whisper.

"Yes, it is."

He cups my face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears. Then he kisses me with desperate intensity, as if he can pour all his apologies into the contact. I kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring all my grief and rage into the connection between us.

We move together with frantic need, clothes disappearing piece by piece onto the bathroom floor.

His hands worship every inch of my skin, mapping the changes pregnancy has brought to my body.

I lose myself in sensation, in the heat of his mouth and the strength of his arms that pin me to his chest as I slide onto his lap, still sobbing.

When I pull away to catch my breath, a sharp knock at the bedroom door shatters the peace.

"Boss." Gianni's voice carries urgency. "I have the package."

Salvatore goes rigid beneath me. He sits up abruptly, careful not to jar me with sudden movements. "Five minutes."

"What package?" I ask, but he's already moving.

He lifts me off him and sets me on the edge of the bathtub before straightening his shirt. "Stay here."

"Salvatore—"

"Stay here, Rosaria. Please."

But I can't. The tone in Gianni's voice, the tension in Salvatore's shoulders—something terrible is about to happen. I wash my face quickly and follow him downstairs, bare feet silent on the marble steps.

The front door stands open. Beyond it, the circular driveway is populated by three nondescript black SUVs. Three figures kneel in the gravel, hands bound behind their backs, dark hoods over their heads.

My heart stops.

Bruno and two other men stand behind the kneeling figures, guns trained on their skulls. Gianni waits beside Salvatore, holding a fourth weapon.

"Remove the hoods," Salvatore orders.

The fabric falls away, revealing three faces I know better than my own.

Rocco. My shadow, my protector since childhood. Blood streams from his nose, and his left eye is swollen shut.

Victor. My cousin, Emilio's son. His lip is split, teeth stained red.

And Emilio. My uncle, my guardian, my destroyer. He looks smaller than I remember, diminished by captivity and fear. But his eyes still burn with the same cold rage that has defined my entire life.

"No." The word tears from my throat. "No, please."

I run toward them, bare feet cutting on the sharp gravel. Salvatore catches me before I reach the kneeling men, his arms locking around my waist.

"Let me go!" I struggle against his grip. "Uncle, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Emilio's gaze finds mine across the distance. For a moment, his expression softens. Then it hardens again, colder than winter stone.

"You chose this," he says quietly. "You chose him over family."

"I didn't choose anything!" Tears stream down my face. "I never had a choice!"

"There's always a choice, Rosaria. You made yours."

I turn in Salvatore's arms, pressing my palms against his chest. "Please. Please don't do this. They're my family."

His green eyes are glacial, empty of mercy. "They threatened you. Threatened our child."

"I'm begging you." I tremble against him, shaking so hard tears don't even come anymore.

"So am I." His voice drops to a whisper. "I'm begging you to understand why this has to happen."

The guns click as safeties are released. The sound echoes across the courtyard with terrible finality.