"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 fromToscathat 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.Vissid'arterises from mythroat 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."
