I can feel her walls tighten around me, and I know she's close. I reach the precipice with her, our breaths mingled in a symphony of moans and gasps. "Come for me, Rosaria," I pant in her ear, picking up the pace even more. "Come with me."
Her core clamps down on me, making it almost impossible for me to continue, and she breaks. My God, does she break.
Rosaria's orgasm is like a dam breaking, and I follow right behind her, my cock throbbing inside her as I explode. The immediate heat and added moisture slick her entrance more, making a puddle between our bodies, but I don’t stop until she’s sated, gasping for breath and panting. Drenched in sweat, she drapes herself across my chest, catching her breath, and I hold her, knowing the very fact that she is in my arms instead of locked in her room means the Costa family will turn up the heat on my shipping routes.
And it’s worth every fucking headache I know awaits me tomorrow.
12
ROSARIA
The vocal studio sits in the forgotten wing of Emilio's estate, where dust motes dance through cracked window panes and floorboards creak with every step. I've claimed this space as mine—the one room where his surveillance feels distant, where his expectations can't penetrate the thick stone walls. The piano keys are yellowed with age, several notes sticking when I press them, but the acoustics remain perfect. Sound bounces off these walls with crystalline clarity, each note lingering in the air.
I've been here for hours. My throat burns, my shoulders ache from tension, but I continue. Puccini'sO Mio Babbino Caroflows from my lips, each phrase carefully controlled, each breath measured. The aria demands vulnerability—a daughter pleading with her father for love, for understanding, for permission to choose her own path. The irony isn't lost on me.
My phone buzzes against the piano bench. Eva's name flashes across the screen.
"You sound tired," she says without preamble when I answer.
"I'm fine." I lean against the piano, grateful for the interruption even as I resist admitting it.
"Rosaria, you can't keep hiding in that mausoleum. When's the last time you slept?"
"I'll sleep when I win theToscaaudition." The words come out sharper than I should speak with my only friend, but I can't even temper the frustration I feel. "I'm going to get that role, Eva. And then I'm getting out of here."
Silence on the other end. Eva knows better than to ask where I plan to go, how I plan to survive without the Costa name protecting me. We both understand that freedom is a luxury I've never been able to afford.
"Listen," she says finally, her voice dropping low. "Luca's been asking questions. About you. About your situation."
My blood chills. "What kind of questions?"
"The kind that suggest he's under pressure. Someone's been talking to the board, Rosaria. They're nervous."
I close my eyes, the pieces clicking into place. "Emilio."
"That's what I'm thinking. He's using the opera house to keep you caged. If he controls your career?—"
"He controls me." I finish the thought, my voice hollow. "He doesn't need bars when he owns every door."
"Be careful," Eva whispers. "Promise me."
I end the call without answering, because we both know promises are worthless when you're already trapped.
The studio feels smaller now, the shadows deeper. I return to the piano, but the notes that emerge are discordant, angry. My voice cracks on a high C, and I slam my fist against the keys in frustration. The harsh crash reverberates through the room.
I need air. I need space. I need to remember how it feels to breathe without permission.
Back in my room, exhaustion pulls at my bones, but sleep refuses to come. I stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster, when my fingers brush against something beneath mypillow. It's a phone. Small, cheap, definitely not mine, but here all the same.
The screen glows when I press the power button. One message waits in the inbox, the sender unknown.
Unknown 4:18 PM: Come to me.
My heart pounds against my ribs. The message could be from anyone—Emilio testing my loyalty, Alba laying another trap, some rival family playing games. But deep in my chest, I know exactly who sent it. The certainty settles over me with the same inevitability as nightfall.
I should delete the message. I should turn off the phone and pretend it never existed. Instead, I find myself pulling on dark clothes, slipping my feet into soft-soled shoes that won't echo against the marble floors.
The estate rests around me as I move through familiar corridors. I know which boards creak, which doors stick, which windows offer the clearest view of the perimeter guards. Emilio trained me well, though not for this purpose. Every lesson in survival, every warning about enemies at the gate—he never considered that the real threat might come from within his own walls.
