The intercom crackles again. "Signore, your guest has arrived."
Words that carry the promise of everything I've been anticipating. Tonight, Rosaria Costa will perform in the space I've created specifically for her voice. Tonight, the obsession that began in a theater box will find its first expression.
"Bring her in."
4
ROSARIA
The 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,SignorinaCosta." 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. "SignorDeSantis 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 soundlike 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.
