He straightens, and I see the flash of something dangerous in his eyes. "Stay."
"My schedule is too busy to keep doing this." The words sound hollow even to me, but I force them out anyway. "This was a mistake."
I don't wait for his response. I push past him and out of the powder room, through the corridor where laughter and conversation still echo from the dining room. The other guests don't see me leave—they're too absorbed in wine and politics and the comfortable certainty of their elevated world.
The drive back to Rome passes in a blur of darkness and regret. My driver maintains professional silence, eyes fixed on the road ahead, pretending not to notice the way I press my fingers to my lips, still tasting Salvatore's kiss. The city lights appear gradually, modern chaos replacing Tuscan elegance, and I feel the familiar cage of my real life closing around me again.
My apartment building rises before us, windows glowing yellow in the night. I climb the stairs slowly, exhaustion settling into my bones with each step. The key turns easily in the lock, and I step into my sanctuary—or what I thought was my sanctuary.
Emilio sits in my living room chair, hands folded in his lap, expression carved from stone. The sight of him in my private space sends ice through my veins, but I force my face into neutral lines.
"Uncle."
"Rosaria." His voice carries the calm that precedes volcanic eruption. "Sit."
I remain standing near the door, keys still in my hand. "How did you get in?"
"Your apartment isn't safe anymore." He ignores my question, rising from the chair with fluid grace that belies his sixty-three years. "You're moving back to the estate. Tonight."
"I'm not a child. I won't be ordered around."
His laugh holds no warmth. "You stopped being a child the moment you decided to play with fire. Now you'll face the consequences."
The words hit me with their implication, with the certainty that my secret meetings haven't been as secret as I believed. Fear crawls up my spine, but I lift my chin in defiance.
"This is my home."
"This is a target." He moves toward me, and I see the controlled but lethal fury he's been holding in check. "Do you think your little performances go unnoticed? Do you believe the DeSantis name offers protection instead of painting a bull's-eye on your back?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't." The single word cuts through my pretense. "Don't insult us both with lies. Pack your things. You have twenty minutes."
He moves toward the door, then pauses. "The car will wait. If you're not downstairs in twenty minutes, my men will come up and pack for you."
The door closes behind him, and I stand frozen in my own living room, surrounded by the life I've built away from family control, away from expectations and obligations. Twenty minutes to dismantle the illusion of independence I've clung to for three years.
I move through my apartment mechanically, throwing clothes into suitcases, gathering essentials with trembling hands. The space that felt like freedom an hour ago now feelsexposed, vulnerable, as if its walls were made of glass instead of stone.
Nineteen minutes later, I stand in the lobby with two suitcases and a carry bag, watching Emilio's car idle at the curb. The driver steps out to take my luggage without meeting my eyes. I slide into the back seat beside my uncle, and we drive through Rome in oppressive silence.
The Costa estate sits on the outskirts of the city, behind walls topped with security cameras and guarded by men who've served the family for decades. My childhood prison, dressed up as palatial protection. The gates open for us automatically, and we follow the circular drive to the main house.
"Your room is ready," Emilio says as we stop before the entrance. "Rocco will be stationed outside. For your protection, of course."
I don't bother responding. We both know protection and imprisonment wear the same face in this family.
Inside, the house smells of lemon oil and old secrets, precisely as I remember. My room—the same room I occupied as a child—has been prepared with fresh linens and flowers, as if this were a homecoming instead of a cage door closing.
I sit on the bed that once held my dreams of escape and pull out my phone. Seventeen missed calls from an unknown number. Four voicemails. I don't need to listen to know who they're from.
Instead, I open my email, scrolling through the usual messages from the opera house, from my voice coach, from publicists and agents. At the bottom, a new message with no subject line, sent from an anonymous account.
I open it, and my blood turns to ice.
The photograph is clear, professionally shot. Me, standing outside Salvatore's villa this evening, emerald dress catching the last rays of sunlight, face turned toward the camera withunmistakable clarity. Below the image, a message in elegant script:
Withdraw from theToscaaudition next week and publicly endorse my candidacy, or this goes to every newspaper in Italy. You have 48 hours to decide.
