Page 6

ROSARIA

T he gates close behind me with a sound that reverberates through my chest. Bruno—at least I think that's his name—guides me along a pristine gravel path toward the villa.

Every hedge has been trimmed to mathematical precision, every stone placed with deliberate purpose.

The building rises ahead in clean lines of pale marble, its windows dark despite the afternoon sun.

No dogs bark from hidden kennels. No gardeners tend the immaculate flowerbeds. Even the fountains operate in complete silence, their water falling in steady, muted streams. This quiet feels manufactured, oppressive. The estate exists to remind visitors of their insignificance.

"Quite the welcoming committee," I murmur as we approach the front door.

Bruno doesn't respond. He opens the door without ceremony and gestures me inside. The foyer swallows our entrance, its marble floors polished to mirror brightness. A single crystal chandelier refracts light into sharp fragments across the stark walls.

"This way, Signorina Costa." His voice echoes despite its softness.

We move through corridors that reveal nothing of their owner.

No photographs smile from side tables. No paintings soften the austere walls.

The furniture appears chosen for expense rather than comfort—sleek leather chairs that would never invite relaxation, glass tables that would show every fingerprint.

"Does anyone actually live here?" I ask, unable to keep the question contained.

Bruno's mouth twitches. " Signor DeSantis prefers simplicity."

Simplicity. The word tastes bitter in my mouth as we pass room after sterile room.

A library filled with books whose spines appear uncracked.

A dining room dominated by a table that could seat twenty but shows no evidence of ever hosting a meal.

Each space feels curated for intimidation rather than habitation.

Bruno stops before double doors of dark wood, unmarked by handles or ornamentation. He pushes them open to reveal the main hall, and my breath catches despite my determination to remain unmoved.

The room opens before me, cathedral-quiet and dominated by focused spotlights that illuminate a grand piano and a single chair.

The lighting transforms the arrangement into something resembling a shrine or a stage.

The piano's black surface gleams, making it appear almost liquid in its perfection. The chair waits empty, expectant.

"He'll be with you shortly." Bruno backs into the hallway, leaving me there. I feel out of place here, lost among the pretentious decorations and strangely anxious to get this over with.

The doors close, and though they aren't locked, I don't try to open them. I stand alone, acutely aware of how small I appear beneath the coffered ceiling. I came because he made it sound like I had no choice, and here I am wondering how important I must be if he can't even be waiting for me.

Turning, I approach the piano slowly, my heels clicking against marble in a rhythm that seems too loud for the sacred quiet. Steinway & Sons , the gold lettering proclaims. Of course it would be the finest money could buy.

"Admiring the craftsmanship?" I hear. I don't startle—years of training have taught me better control—but my pulse quickens.

Salvatore DeSantis enters without sound, moving with controlled grace.

His dark suit fits perfectly, emphasizing the lean strength of his frame.

The lighting catches the sharp line of his jaw, the calculating intelligence in his green eyes.

"I was wondering if it's ever been played," I reply, keeping my voice level as I turn to face him. An older man, perhaps in his sixties or seventies, with silvering hair and wrinkled skin, walks in quietly, taking a seat on the piano bench, not so much as looking at me once.

"Not often." He approaches with measured steps, neither hurried nor hesitant. "Music requires an audience worth performing for."

The implication settles between us. He takes his position near the chair but doesn't sit, studying me with the intensity of someone examining a particularly interesting acquisition.

"Is this what you dragged me out here for?"

His mouth curves in what might charitably be called a smile. "No one dragged you anywhere, Rosaria."

The way he speaks my name—careful, possessive—sends unwelcome heat through my chest. "I didn't come by choice."

"Choice is a luxury." He settles into the chair with fluid precision, his attention never wavering from my face. "What matters is that you're here."

"And what, exactly, do you expect from me?"

"I think you know."

His hands rest on the chair's arms with casual authority, fingers adorned with rings that catch the light when he moves. The spotlights throw his features into sharp relief while leaving his body in shadow, creating the impression of a face floating in darkness.

"You want me to sing." It's not a question.

"I want to hear what Rome has been hoarding."

"Rome doesn't hoard me. I perform there because I choose to."

"Do you?" He leans forward slightly. "Or do you perform there because your uncle permits it?"

The question hits closer to the truth than I'd care to admit. "My career is my own."

"Your career exists at the pleasure of men who see you as a useful ornament." His voice carries the certainty of someone who has made it his business to know such things. "At least I'm honest about what I want."

"And what do you want?"

"Right now? To hear you sing."

I could refuse. I could turn and walk toward those doors, demand he have me taken back to Rome immediately. But something in his voice, in the way he sits perfectly still while watching me, makes refusal feel impossible.

Without warming up, without preparation, I position myself beside the piano. My hands find their place at my sides. My spine straightens into the posture drilled into me through countless hours of training.

"Any requests?" I ask, hating how breathless I sound.

"Surprise me."

I choose Puccini, the aria from Tosca that never fails to silence even the most restless audience, and turning again, I give the instruction to the pianist, whose solemn nod and simple, tart smile tell me he is prepared.

Vissi d'arte rises from my throat without conscious thought, each note finding its perfect pitch in the acoustically perfect space.

The marble amplifies and enriches the sound, turning my voice into something that seems to emanate from the walls themselves.

I don't watch his face as I sing, but I feel his attention on me with physical intensity. The aria tells of art and love, of sacrifice and betrayal, themes that feel suddenly and uncomfortably relevant.

The final note fades into silence deeper than before. I stand motionless, my hands still at my sides, and finally allow myself to meet his eyes.

Salvatore brings his hands together in slow, deliberate applause. Each clap echoes through the space before being absorbed by the shadows.

"Magnificent," he says, rising from the chair. "Though your voice is wasted on opera."

The words hit me with unexpected force. "It's not for sale."

"Everything is for sale, Rosaria. The only question is price."

He circles around me with predatory patience. I force myself to remain still, to show no reaction to his proximity. But I track his movement, acutely aware of how he studies me from each new angle.

"You think you can buy me?"

"I think you're already bought. You perform when your uncle commands it, you stay silent when he demands it, you smile when it serves his purposes." He completes his circuit, positioning himself directly in front of me again. "The only difference is that I would value what I own."

"I'm not something to be owned."

"No?" He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne layered over something darker, more fundamental. "Then why are you here?"

"Because you threatened to expose?—"

"I made an offer. You accepted it." Another step closer. "Did it feel different, singing for me?"

The question catches me off guard. "No. It didn't."

"Liar." His voice drops to something that resembles intimacy. "I watched your face. You sang differently here than you do on any stage in Rome."

"You don't know how I sing anywhere."

"I've watched you perform." He's close enough now that I can see the small scar above his left eyebrow, the exact shade of green in his eyes. "Three times, actually. Orchestra seats, center section. You sing beautifully, professionally, perfectly. But you don't sing with passion."

The observation unsettles me more than his proximity. "My technique is flawless."

"Your technique is irrelevant. Technique serves passion, not the other way around." He tilts his head slightly, studying my face. "When did you last sing because you wanted to, not because someone expected it?"

I open my mouth to answer and realize I can't remember. The silence grows between us, heavy with implications I don't want to examine.

"You felt it," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "The difference. Singing for someone who actually listens instead of someone who merely hears."

"You're mistaken."

"Am I?" He reaches up, his fingers stopping just short of touching my cheek. "Your pulse is racing."

I force myself not to step back, not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me retreat. "Fear will do that."

"Will it?" His hand drops, but he doesn't move away. "Are you afraid of me, Rosaria?"

"I'd be stupid not to be."

"That's not what I asked."

The dangerous truth hovers between us, unspoken.

I am afraid—but not in the way he might expect.

I'm afraid of the way my body responds to his proximity, the way his certainty makes me want to surrender.

I'm afraid of how different I felt singing for him, how the music seemed to come from a deeper place than technique allows.

"I should go," I say.

"Yes, you should." But he doesn't move to let me pass. "Next time, you won't walk away without giving me more."

"There won't be a next time."

His smile broadens, becoming something more genuine and infinitely more dangerous. "We both know that's not true."

I turn toward the doors, but his voice stops me.

"Rosaria."

I don't turn around, but I stop walking.

"Next week. Same time." The words carry the weight of inevitability. "It's not optional."

"Everything is optional," I tell him, already knowing I won't refuse this man's invitation. He's right, it felt different performing for him. A two-hour drive to sing one song, and I'll fucking do it again simply because he asked.

"Not this."

Bruno appears as if by magic, the doors opening to reveal his patient form. But as I move toward escape, Salvatore speaks again.

"Think about it," he calls after me. "When you're back in Rome, performing for audiences who clap because they're supposed to, ask yourself which felt more real."

I don't respond, but his words follow me through the sterile corridors. Bruno escorts me in the same silence that marked our entry, past the unused dining room, the pristine library, the foyer with its sharp-bright chandelier.

The car waits in the circular drive, engine running. As Bruno opens the door, I glance back once at the villa. Salvatore stands in one of the upper windows, watching my departure with the patience of someone who knows I'll return.

I settle into the leather seat without acknowledging him, but I feel his gaze until the car passes through the gates and onto the road leading back to Rome.

The countryside rushes past, but I see none of it. Instead, I replay his words, the careful control in his voice when he spoke my name, the way he moved closer without ever quite touching me. I tell myself these are simply the observations of someone learning to navigate a dangerous situation.

But I can't ignore the truth he identified so easily.

I did sing differently for him. The music came from a place I'd forgotten existed, somewhere beneath the technique and training and expectations.

For those few minutes, I wasn't The Rose of Rome or Emilio's useful niece or anyone else's carefully crafted creation.

I was simply someone who could sing.

The city lights appear on the horizon, promising the illusion of safety and normalcy. But I carry the echo of that hall with me and the knowledge that next week, regardless of what I tell myself between now and then, I will return.

The performance, I realize with crystalline clarity, has only begun.