Page 9 of The Rose’s Thorns (The Roma Syndicate #4)
SALVATORE
T he Teatro dell'Opera di Roma stands before me in the afternoon light, its facade bearing the scars of centuries while maintaining the arrogance of old money and older blood.
I climb the stairs to the main entrance unbothered.
The security guards at the entrance recognize me immediately—their eyes dart between my face and the door, calculating whether their paychecks are worth the confrontation. They step aside without a word.
Power moves through recognition, and I have become a face that opens doors whether I ask or not.
The lobby stretches before me, marble floors polished to mirror brightness, chandeliers casting fractured light across empty seats.
It's rehearsal hour. The building breathes with muted activity, voices carrying from the stage, the distant sound of a piano threading through the corridors.
I move through the backstage area with the confidence of ownership.
Stagehands glance up from their work, freeze for a moment, then return to their tasks with indifference.
Fear has its own language here, spoken in averted gazes and quickened steps.
The artistic director's office door remains closed as I pass—Luca Romano has learned to stay invisible when I visit.
Rosaria's dressing room sits at the end of the corridor, door marked with a simple nameplate. I don't knock before opening. The brass handle turns easily under my palm, and I step inside, closing the door behind me, sealing us into this small space.
She sits by her mirror, removing stage makeup with a wipe.
Her reflection catches mine in the glass, and I watch her shoulders tense.
But she doesn't turn around or give me the satisfaction of startled surprise.
Instead, she continues wiping away the powder and rouge as she focuses back on her own reflection, pretending she isn't surprised to see me here.
I have to admit, living a life with Emilio Costa as her uncle and primary guardian has taught her things other women don't understand.
"You're not welcome here," she says to my reflection, her voice carrying the same measured tone she uses on stage.
I lean against the door, letting my presence fill the space between us. "I don't need an invitation."
She sets down the cloth and turns to face me.
The afternoon light from the small window illuminates her face, revealing the exhaustion she hides so well in public.
Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders, no longer pinned for performance, and the sight of it sends something predatory through my chest.
"Emilio would be furious if he knew about our private concert," I say, watching her reaction carefully. "If he thought you were aligning yourself with the wrong family."
Her spine straightens, and she crosses her arms over her chest. "Emilio doesn't own me."
I push off from the door, taking a step closer. The dressing room shrinks around us, perfume and powder and the lingering scent of her skin creating an atmosphere thick with tension. "He might not. But someone will."
She lifts her chin in that gesture of defiance I've grown to anticipate, to crave. The flush creeping up her neck betrays her despite the steel in her voice. Rosaria is testing my patience by pushing back so much, but I will have what I want.
"Did you get my note?" I ask.
"I did."
"When do you plan to join me again?"
Her breath catches almost imperceptibly. "I don't."
I move closer, close enough to see the rapid pulse at her throat, to smell the vanilla and amber of her perfume mixing with the scents of her fear and her arousal bleeding together.
She holds her ground, but I can see the tremor in her hands, the way she presses her lips together to keep them steady.
"You don't intimidate me," she says, but her voice has lost some of its certainty.
"I don't need to."
The space between us disappears as I take another step.
She's trapped between the makeup table and my body, and I can see the exact moment she realizes it.
Her eyes widen slightly, pupils dilating despite the brightness of the room.
The flush spreads from her neck to her cheeks, and her breathing becomes shallow, rapid.
"Are you always this flushed and breathless?" I ask, letting my voice drop to barely above a whisper as my hands rest on her shoulders. She stands abruptly and the chair scoots back, forcing me to take a step backward.
"Don't touch me," she says sharply.
I chuckle and smirk at her, lifting my chin, and before I can even prepare, she moves. Her hand rises before I can react, palm connecting with my cheek in a sharp crack that echoes off the walls. The sting spreads across my skin, but I don't step back. Instead, I smile.
"I can smell your arousal, Bella," I say, and the unfiltered words cloud the air between us.
She strikes me again, harder this time, her eyes blazing with fury that makes my blood run hot. "Get out."
But I don't move. I study her face, memorizing the way her chest rises and falls, the way she holds herself rigid despite the trembling I can see in her frame. She's magnificent in her anger, beautiful in her defiance, and I want to consume every inch of her resistance.
"You looked beautiful the night you sang for me," I tell her, my voice rough with want. "Next time, you won't leave until I'm satisfied."
The threat hangs between us, promise and warning wrapped in silk.
She doesn't flinch, doesn't look away, but I can see the impact of my words in the way her body responds despite her mind's protests.
The dressing room feels smaller, the air thicker, charged with the electricity of unspoken possibilities.
I step back, giving her space to breathe, to think, to remember.
My hand finds the door handle, and I pause, letting my gaze travel over her one more time.
She stands frozen, arms still crossed, chin still raised in defiance, but her body tells a different story.
The flush has deepened, spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath the neckline of her dress.
Her lips are parted slightly, breaths coming quick and shallow.
"Until next time, Rosa," I say, using the diminutive with deliberate intimacy.
I open the door and step into the corridor, leaving her alone with the echoes of our conversation and the expectation of what's to come.
The opera house seems quieter now, the distant sounds of rehearsal muffled by the blood rushing in my ears.
I move through the backstage area with the same measured pace I entered with, but something has shifted.
The game has changed, evolved into something more dangerous and more necessary.
The afternoon light slants through the lobby windows as I make my way toward the exit.
A few patrons mill about, early arrivals for the evening performance, their conversations stopping as I pass.
I've become a disruption in their orderly world, a reminder that power exists outside their carefully maintained illusions.
The security guards watch me leave with the same suspicion they showed when I arrived. Their relief is palpable but unspoken. I push through the glass doors and into the Roman afternoon, the heat hitting my face as I descend the steps.
My car waits at the curb, engine running, Bruno behind the wheel.
He doesn't ask questions as I slide into the passenger seat, doesn't comment on the tension radiating from my body or the slight redness still marking my cheek where her palm connected.
He simply puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb.
The city passes by in a blur of ancient stone and modern chaos, but my mind remains fixed on the dressing room, on the way she looked at me with equal parts hatred and hunger.
The slap still stings, but it's nothing compared to the fire building in my chest, the need that grows stronger with each encounter.
She thinks she can resist me, thinks her defiance will somehow protect her from what's inevitable. But I've seen the truth in her body's responses, tasted it in the air between us. She wants me as much as I want her, even if she'll never admit it aloud.