But her voice remains flawless. If anything, the dramatic intensity has sharpened her performance, each note delivered with surgical precision that cuts through the theater's acoustics to lodge directly in the listener's chest. When she sings "Vissi d'arte"—Tosca's prayer before her ultimate sacrifice—the silence that follows is absolute. Even the orchestra seems afraid to break the spell her voice has woven.
I watch her face during the aria, studying the micro-expressions that flicker across her features as she inhabits the character's despair. This is not mere technical proficiency.She understands suffering on a level that transcends artistic interpretation.
Interesting.
Act Two concludes with Tosca's murder of Scarpia, the opera's central moment of violence and liberation. Rosaria delivers the killing blow with convincing fury, her face transformed by an anger that seems to draw from genuine sources. When she stands over the fallen baron, her chest heaving with exertion and emotion, I see something in her expression that has nothing to do with staged drama.
Rage. Real, carefully controlled, deeply buried rage.
The final act blurs past in a haze of tragic inevitability. Tosca's suicide, Cavaradossi's execution, the lovers' destruction by forces beyond their control. The opera ends as it must—with death and the promise that some forms of love transcend the boundaries of mortality.
The audience erupts in thunderous applause as the curtain falls. Rose petals rain from the balconies again, carpeting the stage in crimson that mirrors the tragedy just concluded. Rosaria takes her bow with the same controlled grace she has displayed throughout the evening, but I notice the slight tremor in her hands as she accepts the audience's adoration.
Exhaustion. The performance has drained her, physically and emotionally. Good. Vulnerability is easier to exploit than strength.
The applause continues for nearly ten minutes, the audience calling for encore after encore. Rosaria obliges with gracious professionalism, but I can see the effort it costs her to maintain the façade. When the curtain finally falls for the last time, she disappears into the stage's depths with visible relief.
The house lights rise and the audience begins to disperse, their conversations already turning to dinner plans and socialobligations. The magic of the performance dissolves into the mundane reality of Rome's cultural calendar.
I remain seated, watching the theater empty. Bruno and Tano maintain their positions, patient as statues. We have nowhere else to be tonight. My schedule belongs to me completely, shaped by desires rather than obligations.
Twenty minutes pass before Benedetti returns, his appearance even more haggard than before. The conversation with Romano has clearly not gone well.
"Signore," he begins, his voice hoarse with strain. "I have spoken with Director Romano. He... he extends his regrets, but Miss Costa is not available for visitors this evening. Perhaps another time, with advance notice?—"
"Where is Romano now?"
The question cuts through his prepared speech. "I... in his office,Signore."
"Take me to him."
Benedetti's face crumples with defeat. "Signore, please. The director is a very busy man, and?—"
I stand, the movement sharp enough to make him flinch. "Now."
We leave the box in single file—myself, Bruno, Tano, and the increasingly desperate house manager. The corridors behind the theater are less opulent than the public spaces, their walls painted institutional beige and lined with framed photographs of past performances. The Rosa Costa features prominently in recent images, her face appearing in dozens of publicity shots that chronicle her rise to stardom.
Romano's office occupies a corner suite overlooking the theater's rear courtyard. The door is solid oak, its surface polished to mirror brightness. A brass nameplate identifies its occupant.
LUCA ROMANO, ARTISTIC DIRECTOR.
Benedetti knocks with the reverence of a supplicant approaching an altar. "Director Romano?SignorDeSantis wishes to speak with you."
The silence that follows carries the weight of desperate calculation. Romano is weighing his options, searching for an escape route that doesn't exist. When he finally responds, his voice carries the brittle quality of a man approaching his breaking point.
"Enter."
The office beyond the door reflects Romano's position within Rome's cultural hierarchy. Persian rugs cover polished hardwood floors. Oil paintings line the walls—originals, not prints, their value measured in decades of careful acquisition. A mahogany desk dominates the room's center, its surface cluttered with librettos, correspondence, and the tools of artistic administration.
Romano sits behind the desk wearing full evening dress, his bow tie loosened and his collar open. He is younger than I expected—perhaps forty-five, with prematurely gray hair and the soft physique of a man who has spent his life in cushioned seats rather than on dangerous streets. His eyes carry the intelligence of someone who has navigated Rome's cultural politics long enough to survive, but not long enough to feel secure.
"SignorDeSantis." He rises from his chair with the stiff formality of a man acknowledging a superior. "An unexpected honor."
"Luca Romano." I settle into one of the leather chairs facing his desk, the movement calculated to suggest permanence rather than casual visitation. "We need to discuss Miss Costa."
His composure cracks slightly, revealing the fear beneath his professional façade. "Miss Costa is our premier soprano, yes. A remarkable talent, truly extraordinary. But she maintains very strict boundaries regarding personal appearances?—"
"I'm not requesting a personal appearance."
