The walk to my apartment takes me through Rome's narrow streets, past tourists and locals who recognize me from photographs in cultural magazines. Tonight their attention feels heavier, more speculative, as if they sense the scandal brewing beneath my composed exterior.
My building rises before me in elegant lines of honey-colored stone, its façade unmarked by the chaos of my thoughts. The doorman nods respectfully as I pass, his expression revealing nothing of the gossip that surely circulates among the staff. But I notice his glance toward the street, the way his eyes track movement I cannot see.
The elevator carries me to the fifth floor in silence. Its mirrored walls reflect my image from multiple angles. I look exactly as I should—professional, composed, untouchable. But I feel the act crumbling with each passing hour, the careful control I've maintained for years beginning to slip.
My apartment door comes into view as I round the corner, and I stop short at what waits beside it. A single white orchid sits in an elegant vase, its petals perfect and accusatory. The flower seems to glow against the travertine tiles, demanding attention despite its simple beauty.
I approach slowly, my heartbeat accelerating despite my efforts to remain calm. The orchid is flawless, clearly expensive,delivered with the precision that marks all of Salvatore's actions. A small card rests against the vase, my name written in elegant script across its surface.
With trembling fingers, I retrieve the card and read the message inside.
You owe me another.
The words should terrify me. They should send me running to Emilio, seeking protection from the man who has decided I belong to him. Instead, they kindle something unexpected in my chest—not fear, but anticipation.
I unlock my apartment door and carry the orchid inside, setting it on the table where evening light from the windows can illuminate its perfect petals. The flower transforms my ordinary living space into something charged with possibility, a reminder that someone values my voice enough to demand its return.
I pour myself wine and settle onto the sofa, studying the orchid from across the room. Its presence forces me to confront truths I've been avoiding since yesterday's performance. The pull I felt toward Salvatore, the way my voice changed when I sang for him, the electricity that crackled between us despite my attempts to maintain distance.
Alba's words echo in my memory—Protection only lasts as long as it's useful. She meant to threaten me, to remind me that my position depends on family loyalty. But her warning has revealed something else entirely—the cage Emilio has built around me, beautiful and protective and utterly confining.
Salvatore offers something different. Dangerous, certainly. Possessive in ways that should repel me. But when he looked at me during yesterday's performance, he saw someone whose voice could fill empty spaces, someone worth claiming.
Tomorrow, I will have to decide whether to answer his summons, whether to risk everything I've built for the chance to discover what lies beyond the carefully constructed boundaries of my life. But tonight, in the gathering darkness of my apartment, I allow myself to imagine what it might feel like to be wanted rather than merely useful. The orchid watches from its place on the table, patient and perfect and impossible to ignore.
Performance, I realize, has become something more than music. It has become a choice between the safety of familiar constraints and the terrifying possibility of freedom. And despite every logical argument against it, I find myself looking forward to making that choice.
7
SALVATORE
The Teatro dell'Opera di Roma stands before me in the afternoon light, its façade 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 quickenedsteps. 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."
