"The board has expressed some concerns," he begins.
"What kind of concerns?" I snap, knowing that by saying "board" he means Emilio.
"About your public image. Your... associations."
The word cuts through me, though I refuse to let it show on my face. "My associations?"
"Your connection to Salvatore DeSantis is becoming a liability, Rosaria. The board feels it reflects poorly on the opera house's reputation."
I stare at him, processing this information while fury builds in my chest. "The board or my uncle?" My glare hardens to stone and he looks away from me. "So they're punishing me for who I know?"
"They're protecting the institution," Luca says, and there's genuine regret in his voice. "You're one of our most talented performers, but talent alone isn't enough anymore. Not in this climate."
I turn toward the door in a huff. There's nothing else to say. We both understand the politics at play here, the invisible strings that control every aspect of my life.
The hallway outside his office feels endless as I walk toward the backstage area, my mind spinning with the implications of what I've learned. The sound of shouting interrupts my thoughts before I reach the main corridor. Raised voices echo from the loading area behind the stage, accompanied by what sounds distinctly similar to bodies colliding with walls. I quicken my pace, my heels clicking against the floor as I hurry toward the commotion.
The scene that greets me around the corner stops me cold. Bruno and Rocco are locked in what can only be described as a full brawl—not the restrained, controlled violence I've witnessed before, but genuine, brutal combat. Bruno's shirt is torn, blood trickling from a cut above his eyebrow. Rocco's knuckles arealready swelling, his breathing labored as he throws another punch that connects solidly with Bruno's ribs.
"Enough!" Donata's voice cuts through the chaos, but neither man pays attention to her. Their squabble is small-scale representing the larger conflict between my uncle and the man I'm fast becoming attached to in ways I never dreamed.
Stagehands hover at the edges of the fight, unsure whether to intervene or retreat to safety. The loading dock's concrete walls make every impact echo, amplifying the violence unfolding before my eyes.
"She's under Salvatore's protection," Bruno grunts between punches, his voice strained but determined. "Those are my orders."
"Emilio won't allow it," Rocco responds, landing a blow to Bruno's shoulder that sends him stumbling backward. "She belongs tothisfamily, not yours."
The words chill me more than the violence does. They're fighting over me as if I'm property to be claimed, their fists settling a dispute about ownership that I apparently have no voice in. I'm livid as I begin to understand that Salvatore is staking a claim, like I'm just a toy to be bought or sold.
Two stagehands finally work up the courage to grab Bruno's arms while Donata and another crew member restrain Rocco. Both men struggle against their captors, still trying to reach each other even as blood drips onto the concrete.
I remain frozen in place, watching this display of masculine posturing that will determine my immediate future. Neither man looks at me—I'm the prize they're fighting for, but my opinion on the matter appears irrelevant to both of them.
The struggle continues for several more seconds before exhaustion finally wins out over anger. Bruno stops pulling against the hands holding him, though his eyes remain fixedon Rocco with undisguised hatred. Rocco straightens his torn jacket, wiping blood from his split lip with the back of his hand.
"This isn't over," Bruno says, his voice low and threatening.
"Yes, it is," Rocco replies. He turns toward me for the first time since I arrived, his expression brooking no argument. "We're leaving."
Before I can protest or even process what's happening, Rocco's hand closes around my upper arm. His grip isn't gentle—it's the firm hold of someone who expects compliance, not discussion. He pulls me toward the exit, and I find myself walking alongside him simply because resisting would create an even bigger scene, but I glance over my shoulder silently disappointed that Bruno couldn't best him. After what I learned from Luca, I'd rather be going to the DeSantis mansion.
The car ride to the Costa estate passes in tense silence. Rocco drives with controlled aggression, his damaged knuckles gripping the steering wheel while he navigates Rome's evening traffic. I stare out the passenger window, watching the city blur past while my mind races through the implications of what I've witnessed.
The gates of the estate come into view too soon, and I feel my stomach tighten as we pull into the circular driveway. The house looks exactly as it always has—imposing, elegant, wrapped in the kind of old-world luxury that masks the darkness lurking beneath its surface.
Emilio waits for us in his study, seated behind his massive desk as if he's been expecting our arrival. He looks up from his papers when Rocco escorts me into the room, his expression revealing nothing about his knowledge of recent events.
"Rosaria," he says, his voice warm in that calculated way he reserves for family gatherings and business meetings. "How was your day at the opera house?"
"Don't pretend you don't know," I tell him, refusing to play his game of feigned ignorance.
Emilio sets down his pen and leans back in his chair, studying my face with those pale eyes that seem to see everything. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean."
"Bruno and Rocco nearly killed each other today fighting over who gets to watch me. Are you going to tell me that happened without your knowledge?"
A slight smile plays at the corners of Emilio's mouth. "Men can be territorial creatures, especially when they feel their authority is being questioned."
"Their authority over what? Over me?"
