Luca Romano enters looking haggard, his face bearing the weight of decisions made in shadowy offices and payments received in thick envelopes. He avoids my eyes as he takes his seat, focusing instead on his notes and the pretense that what follows will be a fair competition based on merit rather than manipulation.
When my turn comes, I sing with everything I possess. Every note carries the fury of my captivity, the pain of my betrayal, the desperate hope that my voice might still be my own even when everything else has been taken from me. The aria flows from my throat with power and precision that silences the room, that transforms the shabby audition space into something approaching the sacred.
I sing of love and loss, of desire and destruction, of women who choose their own fates even when the world conspires against them. The music becomes a weapon and a shield, a declaration of independence that echoes off the walls and settles into the hearts of everyone present.
When the last note fades, silence stretches across the room. The other singers stare with expressions ranging from admiration to envy to frank amazement. Even Alba's confidence wavers as she realizes the magnitude of the performance she must follow.
But when Alba takes the stage, her voice carries none of the power or precision that the role demands. Her high notes strain and crack, her phrasing lacks the emotional depth that transforms technical competence into art. She rushes through difficult passages and overcompensates for her limitations with theatrical gestures that emphasize rather than disguise her vocal shortcomings.
The contrast between our performances is so stark that even Luca Romano cannot hide his discomfort. He shifts in his seat, makes notes with unnecessary intensity, avoids looking at either of us as we wait for his decision.
"Thank you both," he says finally, his voice carrying false cheerfulness. "That was... illuminating. I'll announce my decision shortly."
We wait in the corridor outside the audition room, surrounded by other singers who whisper among themselves about what they witnessed. Their conversations carry fragments of judgment and speculation, voices that confirm what everyone in the room understood—my performance was superior in every measurable way.
"She was incredible," someone whispers. "That high C in the second aria? Flawless."
"Alba struggled with the coloratura," another voice adds. "Her technique isn't ready for a role this demanding."
"Politics," a third singer mutters. "It's always about politics."
When Luca emerges to announce his decision, his face carries a dark pallor betraying his artistic integrity. He clears his throat, shuffles his papers, and delivers the words that shatter my last illusion of fairness.
"The role goes to Alba Sorrenti."
The corridor erupts in shocked murmurs. Several singers exchange glances that speak of corruption and manipulation, of decisions made in back rooms rather than audition halls. Alba's smile blazes with triumph that feels hollow given the circumstances of her victory.
"Mr. Romano." I step forward, my voice carrying barely controlled fury. "On what basis was this decision made?"
Luca's eyes dart nervously between me and some invisible observer, perhaps Rocco, perhaps one of the other watchers who monitor my every word and gesture. "Miss Sorrenti earned the role through her audition performance. The decision is final."
"Her performance was technically deficient and emotionally shallow." I keep my voice level despite the rage building in my chest. "Everyone in that room heard the difference."
"The decision is final," Luca repeats, his voice gaining strength from repetition. "Miss Sorrenti will play the lead. You'll be assigned to the secondary role of?—"
"I won't be assigned to anything." I turn away from him, from Alba's triumphant smile, from the whispers of singers who understand but cannot speak the truth of what they witnessed. "Keep your secondary roles. Keep your corrupted theater. Keep your artistic integrity that dissolves in the presence of thick envelopes."
Rocco follows me from the building, his heavy footsteps matching my furious pace as I flee the scene of my professionalhumiliation. The street outside the opera house bustles with Roman life—tourists taking photographs, lovers sharing gelato, children chasing pigeons while their parents watch with indulgent smiles. Normal people living normal lives, unaware of the shadow world that operates beneath their city's beautiful surface.
Rocco makes no attempt at conversation during the drive back to the estate, perhaps understanding that my fury needs space to breathe before it explodes into something more dangerous. The city outside blurs past but my heart is crushed. I can't focus on what I'm seeing when what I'm feeling is so large it could suffocate me.
Emilio waits for me in his study, positioned behind his massive desk with the calculated authority of a man who has orchestrated every detail of my day. The room smells of leather and cigars, of old money and older blood, of decisions made in darkness and justified by necessity.
"You seem upset," he observes. His voice carries false concern and I'm not fooled by it.
"You manipulated the audition." I don't bother with pleasantries or pretense. "You bought Luca Romano's decision to keep me bound up here at the estate."
Emilio's smile is cold and utterly without warmth. "I have done nothing of the sort, but if it protected you from making another mistake, so be it. Your judgment has proven... unreliable."
"My judgment?" I laugh bitterly. "What kind of man watches his niece's every move and calls it love? What kind of family imprisons someone for the crime of being blackmailed?"
"The kind of family that survives," Emilio replies, rising from his chair with fluid menace. "The kind of family that understands loyalty and the consequences of betrayal."
"I never betrayed anyone." My voice rises despite my attempts to remain calm. "I was manipulated, threatened, coerced into?—"
"You were seduced." Emilio stalks around his desk, preying on me, tightening his eyes down to thin slits. "You were flattered by the attention of a dangerous man and you forgot who you are, where you come from, what you owe to the family that raised and protected you."
"Protected me?" The words explode from my throat with fury that has been building for weeks. "You've turned me into a prisoner in my own home! You've destroyed my career, isolated me from everyone I trust, and now you want to claim it's protection?"
