At the bottom, a signature that makes my stomach clench—a red lipstick kiss, perfectly applied.
Alba.
I stare at the screen until the words blur, until the reality of my situation crystallizes into sharp, cutting focus. The walls are closing in from every direction—Emilio's protection that feels like prison, Salvatore's obsession that demands everything, and now Alba's ambition threatening to destroy what little control I have left.
Outside my window, Rome spreads out in the darkness, lights twinkling across the seven hills where emperors once ruled and fell. The city that made me, that crowned me its rose, now feels as far away as the stars. I'm trapped in a web of power and desire, of family loyalty and personal hunger, and every thread leads back to the same inevitable conclusion.
I close the laptop and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling that witnessed my childhood fears and adolescent dreams. Tomorrow, I'll have to make a choice that will determine everything that comes after. Tonight, I'll remember the taste of freedom, however brief, however dangerous it proved to be.
The house settles around me with familiar creaks and whispers, and somewhere in the darkness, Rocco takes his position outside my door. The Rose of Rome has returned to her thorns, and the performance is far from over.
9
SALVATORE
The opera house breathes differently after dark. I walk through corridors that transform from gilded grandeur to shadowed arteries once the last patron leaves and the final curtain falls. My footsteps echo against marble floors that have absorbed decades of applause, tears, and the desperate ambitions of performers who would kill for what Rosaria takes for granted. The Teatro dell'Opera di Roma wears its history in every carved detail, every crystal chandelier that now dims to conserve electricity, every oil painting of long-dead composers whose eyes seem to follow my movement through their domain.
Luca Romano's office sits tucked behind the main administrative wing, accessible through a maze of narrow hallways that have welcomed singers as prominent as Luciano Pavarotti. The building's bones creak around me as I navigate toward my destination. Security cameras track my progress, but I know the guards who monitor them have been paid to develop selective blindness tonight. Money talks in every language, and the dialect of the desperate speaks loudest of all.
The door to Romano's office stands slightly ajar, spilling weak yellow light into the hallway. I can hear him inside, therustle of papers, the nervous clearing of his throat. He knows I'm coming. Bruno arranged this meeting with him for me and left no room for misunderstanding or escape. Romano agreed immediately, which tells me everything I need to know about his financial situation and his survival instincts.
I push the door open without knocking. Romano jerks upright behind his desk, a middle-aged man whose thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses give him the appearance of a clerk rather than the artistic director of one of Europe's most prestigious opera houses. His office reflects his personality—cluttered but organized, expensive but not ostentatious, filled with photographs of himself shaking hands with singers whose names appear on programs and whose voices fill theaters across the continent.
"SignorDeSantis." His voice carries but cracks a little. He's terrified of me, as he well should be, but he's trying to hide it. "Please, sit."
I close the door behind me, deliberately making the chair scrape on the floor loud enough to make Romano flinch as I sit. The office feels smaller with the door closed, the walls pressing closer, the single desk lamp casting harsh shadows that transform familiar objects into threatening shapes.
Romano's hands tremble as he shuffles through papers on his desk, a nervous habit that accomplishes nothing but betrays his state of mind. Sweat beads along his hairline despite the evening chill that seeps through the old building's windows. He knows who I am. More importantly, he knows what I represent—the kind of power that operates outside the law, beyond the reach of contracts and civilized negotiation.
"You know why I'm here." I keep my voice level, conversational. No need for theatrics when reputation does the work for me.
"I..." Romano starts, then stops, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "I'm not sure I understand."
"Rosaria Costa." Her name transforms the atmosphere in the room, charging the air with tension that makes Romano's breathing shallow and quick. "She told me she's too busy to see me again. That won't work."
Romano's eyes dart toward the door, then back to me, calculating distances and possibilities for escape that don't exist. His office has no other exit, no window large enough for a man his size to squeeze through, no emergency button that would summon help before I could silence him permanently.
"SignorDeSantis, I need you to understand—Miss Costa's schedule is incredibly demanding. She has rehearsals, performances, interviews, photo shoots, charity functions. The board expects?—"
"The board." I lean closer to his desk, watching him shrink back in his chair. "Tell me about this board."
"They're... they're very influential people. Patrons of the arts. They invest significant money in our productions, they expect returns on those investments, they?—"
"They answer to the Costa family."
Romano's face goes pale. He knows the truth of it, has probably known for years but never allowed himself to think too deeply about the source of his funding or the strings attached to his position. Opera houses require money—vast amounts of money—and that money comes from somewhere. In Rome, it comes through channels that lead back to Emilio Costa.
"I want her schedule cleared." I place my hands flat on his desk, leaning forward until our faces are inches apart. "Rehearsals lightened. Press events pushed back. Anything not critical removed."
"I... I can't..." Romano stammers, his voice breaking. "The producers, the other singers, the union contracts, the publicity commitments?—"
"You can." My voice remains steady, reasonable. "You will."
Romano looks down at his desk, at the scattered papers that represent his life's work, his carefully constructed career that could crumble with a single phone call to the right people. His hands shake as he reaches for a glass of water, taking a small sip that does nothing to steady his nerves.
"The fall season is already set," he tries again, desperation creeping into his voice. "We haveToscain three weeks, thenLa Traviata, then the Christmas gala. Miss Costa is the lead in all three productions. The tickets are sold, the sets are built, the orchestra has been rehearsing for months?—"
"Then you'll find a way to make it work with less rehearsal time." I straighten, reaching into my jacket pocket. Romano's eyes widen, his body tensing as if preparing for violence, but I withdraw only an envelope. Thick. Heavy. The kind of envelope that ends conversations and starts new ones.
