Page 7

SALVATORE

Rosaria appears on screen in high definition, every detail captured by the cameras I had installed throughout the hall.

The angle shows her profile as she positions herself beside the piano, spine straight, hands clasped with a professional posture.

Even through the lens, her beauty strikes me with the same force it wielded in person.

I watch her mouth open, though the audio feeds through speakers that transform her voice into something clinical, digital.

The real performance lives in my memory—the way her voice filled the space between us, how it seemed to originate from an ethereal, otherworldly place.

But the footage reveals what I missed while drowning in the sound of her.

She never looks at me directly. Not once during the entire aria. Her gaze fixes on points beyond my chair, above my head, anywhere but my face. Even when she finishes and finally meets my eyes, the camera captures the moment of surrender before she rebuilds her walls.

I replay the sequence, studying the way she holds herself. Control radiates from every line of her body, from the careful placement of her feet to the deliberate stillness of her shoulders. She performs with the discipline of someone who has learned that survival depends on perfection.

But there are cracks, microscopic fissures in her composure that the cameras catch in ruthless detail. The slight tremor in her left hand when I circle behind her. The way her breathing shifts when I move closer. The pulse visible at her throat when I mention valuing what I own.

I pause the footage on her face during that moment, zooming in until her features fill the screen.

Her dark eyes reveal nothing to a casual observer, but I see the truth hidden beneath her performance.

She felt it—the pull between us, the way the air changed when I stepped into her space.

She can deny it with words, but her body betrays her.

The control she maintains fascinates me more than her voice, more than her beauty. It represents a challenge that quickens my pulse in ways I haven't experienced since taking power. I want to see what lies beneath that perfect facade. I want to be the one who shatters it.

"Boss?"

Bruno's voice cuts through my concentration. I don't turn from the screen, but I gesture for him to continue.

"Got word from the Rome warehouse. Three trucks came through tonight, all Costa marked."

Now I swivel the chair to face him. Bruno stands in the doorway, his military bearing unchanged despite years of civilian service. His expression reveals nothing, but his tone carries weight I've learned to read.

"And?"

"One truck we tagged. Clean insertion, no detection. But the other two..." He pauses, choosing his words. "They were scrubbed. Professional work. Someone knew we were watching."

The news doesn't surprise me, but it confirms what I've suspected. Emilio Costa didn't build his empire through carelessness. He's been watching us as carefully as we've been watching him, and the game has escalated beyond simple surveillance.

"How many men do we have on the warehouse?"

"Six, rotating shifts. But if they made us on two trucks?—"

"They made us on all three." I turn back to the monitors, pulling up feeds from the Rome operation. "The one they let us tag was the message."

The warehouse appears on screen in grainy night vision, its loading docks busy with legitimate commerce.

Costa's legitimate commerce, running alongside his more profitable enterprises.

The trucks Bruno mentioned sit in formation near the south entrance, their drivers probably unaware of the deadly chess match being played around them.

"What are your orders?"

Before I can answer, Gianni appears behind Bruno, his thin frame filling the remaining space in the doorway. My consigliere's face carries the expression I've learned to associate with bad news delivered with careful diplomacy.

"We need to talk," he says, glancing at the monitors. "About escalation."

I gesture both men inside and kill the feeds. The surveillance room suddenly feels smaller with three bodies occupying space designed for solitary observation. Gianni moves to the corner where he can watch both the door and my face, old habits from years of navigating treacherous waters.

"Speak."

"Moving on the warehouse now triggers a war we're not ready for." Gianni's voice carries the measured cadence of someone who has survived by choosing words carefully. "Costa has twice our manpower in Rome, and his political connections run deeper than ours."

"His political connections won't help him if he's dead."

"Getting to him requires getting through his defenses. Getting through his defenses requires resources we don't have." Gianni steps closer, his voice dropping to the tone he uses when delivering unwelcome truths. "We push too hard now, we lose everything."

Bruno nods agreement, though his soldier's instincts clearly favor action over patience. "Gianni's right about the numbers. Costa's been fortifying his position since word spread about our expansion. He's ready for direct confrontation."

I study both men, reading the caution in their faces. They see the tactical situation clearly—Costa holds the stronger position in Rome, and premature aggression could destroy everything I've built in Naples. Their analysis is correct, logical, professional.

It's also irrelevant.

"War is already coming," I tell them, my voice cutting through their diplomatic concerns. "The question isn't whether we fight, but whether we choose the battlefield."

"Boss—"

"Costa has something I want. He knows I want it. Every day I don't take it, I look weak to my own people and his." I stand, pacing to the bank of monitors that show feeds from across my territory. "Weakness invites aggression. Better to attack from strength than defend from weakness."

Gianni and Bruno exchange glances, a silent communication perfected through years of partnership. Finally, Gianni speaks.

"What do you want from the warehouse?"

"Expand surveillance. Full coverage on all approaches, not this selective bullshit we've been running. If Costa wants to play games with marked trucks, I want to know which ones carry his drugs and which ones carry his laundry."

"That level of surveillance requires more men," Bruno interjects. "Men we'd have to pull from other operations."

"Then pull them."

"And if Costa retaliates?"

"He will retaliate. The question is when and how." I turn back to face them, my decision crystallizing. "I want the warehouse reinforced. Double the guard rotation, add shooters to the rooftops, make sure we have clear sight lines on every approach."

"That's a military installation," Gianni warns. "You put that kind of firepower in Rome, Costa has to respond. His reputation depends on it."

"Good. Let him respond. Let him show his hand while we still control the timing."

Bruno straightens, his professional demeanor sharpening as he shifts into operational mode. "What about fallback positions?"

"Draw up plans for full withdrawal if necessary. Alternate routes, safe houses, extraction points for key personnel." I pause, considering the implications. "And Bruno? Make sure the plans account for... complications."

Both men understand my meaning. If this escalates beyond simple territory disputes, if it becomes personal, the rules change. Plans made for business warfare become inadequate when honor and possession enter the equation.

"How long do we have?" Gianni asks.

"Until Costa makes his next move. Could be days, could be weeks." I settle back into the chair, my attention returning to the monitors. "But it's coming. And when it does, I want us ready."

They leave me alone with my screens and my thoughts, their footsteps fading into the villa's perpetual quiet.

I pull up the warehouse feeds again, studying the patterns of movement, the flow of trucks and personnel that masks Costa's real business.

Somewhere in that organized chaos lies the weakness I need to exploit.

But my attention drifts back to the performance footage, to Rosaria's face frozen in digital perfection. She represents more than attraction now, more than a prize to be won. She's become the symbol of everything Costa has that I want, everything he believes his power can protect.

The irony isn't lost on me. In trying to use her as a weapon against her uncle, I've discovered she's become something far more dangerous—a vulnerability I can't afford but can't abandon.

I switch to live feeds from Rome, scanning the cityscape for signs of Costa activity.

Somewhere in those narrow streets, Rosaria sleeps in her apartment, probably dreaming of stages and audiences and the life she believes she controls.

Tomorrow, she'll wake and try to convince herself that our encounter meant nothing, that she can resist the pull between us through simple determination.

The surveillance equipment hums around me, a mechanical heartbeat in the darkness. Each monitor shows a different angle of my empire, the territory I've claimed through blood and strategy. But none of it feels as important as the single woman whose voice still echoes in my memory.

I close the performance footage and open a new screen, one connected to networks that don't officially exist. With careful keystrokes, I navigate to services that cater to particular needs, businesses that ask no questions and leave no traces.

The order is simple—one white orchid, greenhouse fresh, delivered to an address in Rome. The florist's system accepts my payment through encrypted channels, processing the transaction in seconds. But the message requires more consideration.

Words have power, especially when delivered to someone as intelligent as Rosaria. Too much threatens to reveal weakness. Too little fails to convey intent. The message must walk the line between promise and threat, between invitation and command.

I type the words slowly, each letter chosen with the precision I bring to more violent pursuits.

You owe me another .

Simple. Direct. Open to interpretation while conveying unmistakable meaning. She'll understand what I want, and she'll know that refusal isn't really an option. The orchid will arrive tomorrow morning, a white reminder of the performance she owes and the man who waits to collect it.

In a few hours, dawn will break over the countryside, bringing news of Costa's response to our warehouse surveillance.

The game will continue its deadly progression, but for now, in the blue-lit darkness of the surveillance room, I allow myself to anticipate her reaction.

She'll open the door to find the orchid waiting, its petals perfect and accusatory.

She'll read the note and understand that distance means nothing, that her uncle's protection can't shield her from what she's awakened.

Tomorrow, Rosaria Costa will hold proof that I can reach her anywhere.

I lean back in the chair, surrounded by the tools of modern warfare, and smile. War is coming to Rome, and I intend to win it on every front that matters. Territory, reputation, power—and the woman whose voice has become the soundtrack to my ambition.

The orchid will arrive at dawn, white and perfect and impossible to ignore. And with it, the message that our dance has only begun.