"Over their responsibilities," he corrects, though we both know the distinction is meaningless. "You've put yourself in a position where protection is necessary, and different parties have different ideas about how that protection should be provided."
I step closer to his desk, anger finally overriding the caution that usually governs my interactions with him. "I didn't ask for protection from anyone."
"No," he agrees. "But you've made choices that require it, nonetheless."
The study falls silent except for the ticking of the antique clock on the mantel. Emilio watches me with the patience of a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run.
"What do you want from me?" I ask finally.
"I want you to stay in line," he says, and all pretense of warmth disappears from his voice. "I want you to remember who raised you, who gave you opportunities, who made your career possible. I want you to stop making decisions that put this family at risk."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you'll lose everything." The words are delivered without emotion, as if he's discussing the weather rather than threatening to destroy my life. "Your career, your reputation, your security—all of it depends on maintaining the relationships that brought you to where you are today."
I want to argue, to tell him that my talent earned my place at the opera house, but we both know the truth runs deeper than that. In Rome, talent without connections means nothing, and my connections all trace back to this house, this man, this web of obligations that has defined my entire adult life.
"I understand," I say, though the words taste bitter in my mouth.
"Good." Emilio picks up his pen again, already dismissing me from his attention. "Rocco will see you out."
My room feels different when I enter it alone—as if the walls have moved closer together while I was away. Rocco snarls at me as he shuts the door and locks me in, and I pour myself a glass of wine and settle onto my bed, trying to process the events of the day, when my phone buzzes with a text message.
The number is unfamiliar, but the message makes my blood run cold.
Unknown 3:28 PM: Check your email.
I open my laptop with trembling fingers, dreading what I'll find waiting for me. Alba's message appears at the top of my inbox, the subject line reading simply,Final Warning.
The email contains no text, only a video attachment that I know I shouldn't open but can't resist viewing. The footage is grainy, clearly shot from a distance, but the image is unmistakable—me walking through the gates of Salvatore's estate a week ago, my face clearly visible as I approach the front door.
My phone rings before I can fully absorb the implications of what I've seen. Alba's voice is crisp and businesslike when I answer.
"I assume you've seen the video," she says openly. This isn't a secret blackmail attempt. This is an open threat. She is the one having me followed to provide information to the board and to my uncle.
"What do you want?"
"I want you to withdraw from all future roles at the opera house. Publicly. Cite personal reasons, family obligations, whatever excuse you prefer. But make it clear that you're stepping back from your career indefinitely."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then every member of the opera house board will receive a copy of this video, along with several others I've collected over the past few weeks. Your relationship with Salvatore DeSantis will become public knowledge, and I think we both know how that will affect your reputation."
The line goes quiet while I consider my options, though we both understand I don't really have any. Alba holds all the cards in this game, and she's finally decided to play them.
"You have twenty-four hours," she continues. "After that, the video goes public regardless of what you decide."
The call ends, leaving me alone with the devastating realization that everything I've worked for is about to disappear. The opera house, my career, my independence—all of it will be gone by tomorrow night, sacrificed to protect a relationship that I can't even publicly acknowledge.
I close my laptop and finish my wine, staring out at the Roman skyline as darkness settles over the city. My stomach roils too, nausea over the fact that I'm being pushed into a corner against my will.
The irony isn't lost on me—I'm about to lose everything because of a connection I never intended to form with a man who promised me power but delivered only complications. The stage that has been my sanctuary for years will soon be forbidden territory, and the audience that once applauded my performances will know me only as a scandal.
Outside my window, Rome continues its ancient dance of power and politics, of secrets and survival. Tomorrow, I'll become another casualty in that endless game, another voice silenced by forces beyond my control.
15
SALVATORE
