In a few hours, dawn will break over the countryside, bringing news of Costa's response to our warehouse surveillance. The game will continue its deadly progression, but for now, in the blue-lit darkness of the surveillance room, I allow myself to anticipate her reaction. She'll open the door to find the orchid waiting, its petals perfect and accusatory. She'll read the note and understand that distance means nothing, that her uncle's protection can't shield her from what she's awakened.
Tomorrow, Rosaria Costa will hold proof that I can reach her anywhere.
I lean back in the chair, surrounded by the tools of modern warfare, and smile. War is coming to Rome, and I intend to win it on every front that matters. Territory, reputation, power—and the woman whose voice has become the soundtrack to my ambition.
The orchid will arrive at dawn, white and perfect and impossible to ignore. And with it, the message that our dance has only begun.
6
SALVATORE
The 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 beenpracticing 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 influencereaches into every aspect of Roman cultural life, from casting decisions to press coverage. Crossing him means professional suicide.
