Page 8

SALVATORE

T he rehearsal room at Teatro dell'Opera di Roma feels smaller today after having sung for Salvatore in his grand hall.

Its familiar walls close in as I scan the updated cast list posted by the entrance.

My name appears halfway down the page, relegated to a secondary role I haven't sung since my second season.

The lead—my lead—now belongs to someone else.

I read the list three times, each pass confirming what I refuse to accept.

Yesterday I was Tosca. Today I'm relegated to the chorus, my voice deemed suddenly insufficient for the role I've owned for two years.

The demotion comes without explanation, without warning, without the courtesy of a conversation.

"Problem, Rosaria?"

Alba Sorrenti materializes beside me, her voice carrying false sympathy. She studies the cast list with poorly concealed satisfaction, her finger tracing the line where her name now appears in the position mine occupied yesterday.

"Not at all," I reply, keeping my voice level despite the fury building in my chest. "Congratulations on your promotion."

"Thank you. I'm sure you understand—these decisions are made for the good of the production." She pauses, letting the words settle. "I'm sure your uncle will be proud of your... flexibility."

The mention of Emilio sends ice through my veins, but I refuse to give her the reaction she seeks. Instead, I turn from the cast list and walk toward the practice rooms, my heels clicking against marble floors that have witnessed decades of similar betrayals.

The rehearsal proceeds with mechanical precision.

I perform my reduced role flawlessly, hitting every note with professional detachment while Alba stumbles through arias that should flow effortlessly.

Her technique is adequate, but her voice lacks the depth that transforms competent singing into art.

The irony tastes bitter in my mouth—she has claimed my role but cannot fill it.

During break, Luca Romano approaches with the careful steps of a man walking through a minefield. The artistic director's usual confidence has been replaced by something that looks disturbingly close to fear.

"Rosaria, a word?"

He guides me to a corner where the other singers cannot overhear, his hands clasped behind his back in a gesture that betrays his nervousness. The man who has praised my performances in countless reviews now cannot meet my eyes.

"The cast changes were necessary," he begins, his voice pitched low. "Artistic considerations?—"

"Artistic considerations?" I interrupt, my composure finally cracking. "Since when do artistic considerations involve promoting a mezzo-soprano to a soprano lead?"

"Since the board determined it was in the production's best interest." His words come out rehearsed, as if he's been practicing this conversation. "These decisions are made at levels above my authority."

"What levels, Luca? Which board members suddenly developed expertise in vocal classification?"

He flinches at the question, confirming what I've suspected. The board members he references have names I know well—men whose businesses thrive under Costa protection, whose donations to the opera house ensure their voices carry disproportionate influence.

"Your uncle will be furious if he discovers you gave Salvatore DeSantis a private concert."

The words hit me with the force of a physical blow. Luca's knowledge of yesterday's events means the information has already traveled through channels I cannot control. Emilio will know soon, if he doesn't already.

"My private activities are none of your concern."

"They are when they affect the opera house." His voice hardens, authority returning as he delivers what sounds remarkably close to a threat. "When they affect the relationships that keep this institution functioning."

I study his face, reading the fear beneath his professional mask.

Luca Romano has spent years navigating the treacherous waters of Roman cultural politics, balancing artistic vision with the demands of powerful patrons.

He understands that survival requires choosing sides carefully, and my actions have forced him to make a choice.

"Are you threatening me, Luca?"

"I'm warning you. As a friend." He steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Whatever game you're playing with the DeSantis family, it endangers everyone who depends on Costa goodwill. Including you."

The warning carries truth I can't deny. Emilio's control over my career extends far beyond family obligation. His influence reaches into every aspect of Roman cultural life, from casting decisions to press coverage. Crossing him means professional suicide.

But something rebellious rises in my chest, a reaction that surprises me with its intensity.

I'm tired of being managed, tired of having my choices dictated by men who see me as a useful ornament.

Emilio's control has shaped every aspect of my life, from the roles I sing to the interviews I give to the image I project. Even my rebellion feels choreographed.

"Thank you for the warning," I tell Luca, my voice cooling to professional detachment. "But my personal relationships are my own business."

"Rosaria—"

"We're done here."

I turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the corner. The other singers watch my departure with careful attention—people who sense drama but can't identify its source. Their whispers follow me across the rehearsal room, speculation and gossip that will fuel conversations for days.

The remaining hours pass in a blur of mechanical performance.

I sing my reduced role with technical perfection, giving nothing of myself to the music.

Alba struggles through her expanded part, her voice straining to reach notes that should come naturally.

But the directors offer encouragement instead of correction, their compliments as hollow as her performance.

When rehearsal finally ends, I gather my things calmly, though it takes a measure of self-control.

The other singers file out in clusters, their voices carrying fragments of conversation that stop when I pass.

Eva Mariani lingers near the dressing room entrance, her expression sympathetic but cautious.

"Rosaria," she calls softly as I approach. "People are talking."

"People always talk, Eva. It's what they do best."

"This is different." She glances around, ensuring we cannot be overheard. "Someone saw you being driven out of the city yesterday. Expensive car, Naples plates."

The information shouldn't surprise me. Rome's opera community thrives on gossip, and my movements are always scrutinized. But hearing it confirmed makes my stomach tighten with unease.

"Who saw me?"

"Does it matter? The story is already spreading." Eva's voice carries genuine concern. "Whatever you're involved in, be careful. The Costa name protects you, but it also makes you a target."

Before I can respond, she hurries away, leaving me alone with the implications of her warning. The dressing room door beckons, offering temporary refuge from the stares and whispers that follow my every move.

Inside, the familiar chaos of costumes and makeup provides no comfort.

I sit before the mirror, studying my reflection with critical eyes.

The woman who stares back appears composed, professional, untroubled by the day's events.

But I can see the cracks in my carefully maintained facade, the tiny signs of strain that reveal more than I wish to acknowledge.

"Difficult day?"

Alba's voice makes me tense, though I don't turn from the mirror. She enters the dressing room with the confident stride of someone who has claimed territory, her reflection appearing beside mine in the glass. It's only a matter of time before they take my dressing room and give it to her too.

"Not particularly," I reply, taking my concealer pen and dabbing it below my eyes to hide the faint lines forming there from fatigue.

"Really? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks quite difficult indeed.

" She settles into the chair beside me, making no pretense of preparing for departure.

"Losing a lead role, facing whispers about mysterious car rides, dealing with artistic directors who've suddenly lost their confidence in your abilities. "

"What do you want, Alba?"

"To offer perspective." Her sharp smile reflects in the mirror, satisfied. "You see, some of us have been watching your career with interest. Watching how easily success came to you, how doors opened at the mention of your name. It's fascinating, really, how quickly those same doors can close."

I set down the makeup and turn to face her directly. "If you have something to say, say it."

"Salvatore DeSantis." The name falls from her lips with a nasty smirk. "Handsome man, from what I hear. Dangerous, certainly. Not the sort of person a respectable soprano should be seen with."

The confirmation that she knows his name, that she's been monitoring my activities, sends cold fury through my veins. "Stay out of things you don't understand."

"Oh, but I understand perfectly." Alba leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"I understand that protection only lasts as long as it's useful.

I understand that powerful men have little patience for women who embarrass them.

And I understand that your uncle is the type of man who values family loyalty above all else. "

"My relationship with my uncle is none of your concern."

"Isn't it? When that relationship affects my opportunities, my career, my future?" She stands, smoothing her dress. "You've had everything handed to you because of your name. But names can become liabilities, Rosaria. And when they do, people get discarded."

She moves toward the door, pausing to deliver her final words. "Enjoy your reduced role. Consider it practice for what's coming."

The door closes behind her as I sit alone among the costumes and mirrors, processing the threats hidden beneath her polite words. Alba has positioned herself as my replacement, ready to step into the vacuum my disgrace will create.

But her confidence reveals a miscalculation.

She sees my association with Salvatore as weakness, as evidence of poor judgment that will inevitably lead to my downfall.

She doesn't understand that the pull I felt in his presence, the way my voice changed when I sang for him, represents something I've never experienced before.

The walk to my apartment takes me through Rome's narrow streets, past tourists and locals who recognize me from photographs in cultural magazines. Tonight their attention feels heavier, more speculative, as if they sense the scandal brewing beneath my composed exterior.

My building rises before me in elegant lines of honey-colored stone, its facade unmarked by the chaos of my thoughts.

The doorman nods respectfully as I pass, his expression revealing nothing of the gossip that surely circulates among the staff.

But I notice his glance toward the street, the way his eyes track movement I cannot see.

The elevator carries me to the fifth floor in silence. Its mirrored walls reflect my image from multiple angles. I look exactly as I should—professional, composed, untouchable. But I feel the act crumbling with each passing hour, the careful control I've maintained for years beginning to slip.

My apartment door comes into view as I round the corner, and I stop short at what waits beside it. A single white orchid sits in an elegant vase, its petals perfect and accusatory. The flower seems to glow against the travertine tiles, demanding attention despite its simple beauty.

I approach slowly, my heartbeat accelerating despite my efforts to remain calm. The orchid is flawless, clearly expensive, delivered with the precision that marks all of Salvatore's actions. A small card rests against the vase, my name written in elegant script across its surface.

With trembling fingers, I retrieve the card and read the message inside.

You owe me another.

The words should terrify me. They should send me running to Emilio, seeking protection from the man who has decided I belong to him. Instead, they kindle something unexpected in my chest—not fear, but anticipation.

I unlock my apartment door and carry the orchid inside, setting it on the table where evening light from the windows can illuminate its perfect petals.

The flower transforms my ordinary living space into something charged with possibility, a reminder that someone values my voice enough to demand its return.

I pour myself wine and settle onto the sofa, studying the orchid from across the room.

Its presence forces me to confront truths I've been avoiding since yesterday's performance.

The pull I felt toward Salvatore, the way my voice changed when I sang for him, the electricity that crackled between us despite my attempts to maintain distance.

Alba's words echo in my memory— Protection only lasts as long as it's useful . She meant to threaten me, to remind me that my position depends on family loyalty. But her warning has revealed something else entirely—the cage Emilio has built around me, beautiful and protective and utterly confining.

Salvatore offers something different. Dangerous, certainly. Possessive in ways that should repel me. But when he looked at me during yesterday's performance, he saw someone whose voice could fill empty spaces, someone worth claiming.

Tomorrow, I will have to decide whether to answer his summons, whether to risk everything I've built for the chance to discover what lies beyond the carefully constructed boundaries of my life.

But tonight, in the gathering darkness of my apartment, I allow myself to imagine what it might feel like to be wanted rather than merely useful.

The orchid watches from its place on the table, patient and perfect and impossible to ignore.

Performance, I realize, has become something more than music. It has become a choice between the safety of familiar constraints and the terrifying possibility of freedom. And despite every logical argument against it, I find myself looking forward to making that choice.