"Your technique is irrelevant. Technique serves passion, not the other way around." He tilts his head slightly, studying my face. "When did you last sing because you wanted to, not because someone expected it?"
I open my mouth to answer and realize I can't remember. The silence grows between us, heavy with implications I don't want to examine.
"You felt it," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "The difference. Singing for someone who actually listens instead of someone who merely hears."
"You're mistaken."
"Am I?" He reaches up, his fingers stopping just short of touching my cheek. "Your pulse is racing."
I force myself not to step back, not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me retreat. "Fear will do that."
"Will it?" His hand drops, but he doesn't move away. "Are you afraid of me, Rosaria?"
"I'd be stupid not to be."
"That's not what I asked."
The dangerous truth hovers between us, unspoken. I am afraid—but not in the way he might expect. I'm afraid of the way my body responds to his proximity, the way his certainty makes me want to surrender. I'm afraid of how different I felt singing for him, how the music seemed to come from a deeper place than technique allows.
"I should go," I say.
"Yes, you should." But he doesn't move to let me pass. "Next time, you won't walk away without giving me more."
"There won't be a next time."
His smile broadens, becoming something more genuine and infinitely more dangerous. "We both know that's not true."
I turn toward the doors, but his voice stops me.
"Rosaria."
I don't turn around, but I stop walking.
"Next week. Same time." The words carry the weight of inevitability. "It's not optional."
"Everything is optional," I tell him, already knowing I won't refuse this man's invitation. He's right, it felt different performing for him. A two-hour drive to sing one song, and I'll fucking do it again simply because he asked.
"Not this."
Bruno appears as if by magic, the doors opening to reveal his patient form. But as I move toward escape, Salvatore speaks again.
"Think about it," he calls after me. "When you're back in Rome, performing for audiences who clap because they're supposed to, ask yourself which felt more real."
I don't respond, but his words follow me through the sterile corridors. Bruno escorts me in the same silence that marked our entry, past the unused dining room, the pristine library, the foyer with its sharp-bright chandelier.
The car waits in the circular drive, engine running. As Bruno opens the door, I glance back once at the villa. Salvatore stands in one of the upper windows, watching my departure with the patience of someone who knows I'll return.
I settle into the leather seat without acknowledging him, but I feel his gaze until the car passes through the gates and onto the road leading back to Rome.
The countryside rushes past, but I see none of it. Instead, I replay his words, the careful control in his voice when he spoke my name, the way he moved closer without ever quite touching me. I tell myself these are simply the observations of someone learning to navigate a dangerous situation.
But I can't ignore the truth he identified so easily. I did sing differently for him. The music came from a place I'd forgotten existed, somewhere beneath the technique and training and expectations. For those few minutes, I wasn't The Rose of Rome or Emilio's useful niece or anyone else's carefully crafted creation.
I was simply someone who could sing.
The city lights appear on the horizon, promising the illusion of safety and normalcy. But I carry the echo of that hall with me and the knowledge that next week, regardless of what I tell myself between now and then, I will return.
The performance, I realize with crystalline clarity, has only begun.
