The footage from today's rehearsal plays on my laptop screen for the third time, and I pause it at the moment Rosaria steps center stage. Even through the grainy surveillance camera, I can see the tension carved into her shoulders, the way she holds her spine too rigid, as if her internal pressure has caused her bones to turn to steel. Her voice remains flawless—it always does—but her body tells a different story.
I close the laptop and lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. The office feels too small tonight while my mind churns through possibilities and consequences.
"Boss?" Tano's voice cuts through my thoughts. He stands in the doorway, tablet in hand, waiting for permission to enter.
"Come in. What do you have?"
He crosses the room and sets the tablet on my desk. The screen displays a series of financial transactions. "The opera house board meeting from yesterday. Three members received significant deposits within hours of the vote to remove her from the showcase."
I scroll through the numbers, recognizing the routing patterns immediately. "Emilio's money."
"Has to be. The amounts are too precise, too coordinated to be coincidence."
I set the tablet aside and walk to the window overlooking Naples. The city sprawls beneath me, lights twinkling in the darkness, but my thoughts remain fixed on Rome. On her.
"Any word from our contact at the opera house?"
"Luca's been dodging calls since the board meeting. Word is he's nervous about the pressure from both sides."
I turn away from the window, decision crystallizing in my mind. "Get him on the phone. Now."
Tano dials while I pour myself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the office lights. The call connects on the fourth ring, and I can hear the reluctance in Luca's voice before he even speaks.
"SignorDeSantis," he says, and I can practically feel him sweating through the phone. "I wasn't expecting?—"
"The showcase," I interrupt. "She's back on it."
Thick silence crackles across the line, broken only by the sound of traffic in the background. Luca clears his throat nervously. "I'm afraid that's not possible. The board has made their decision, and?—"
"The board made their decision based on Costa money. We both know that."
"Even if that were true, which I'm not saying it is, my hands are tied. I can't override a board decision without cause."
I take a sip of whiskey, letting the burn settle in my throat before responding. "Then find cause. Or better yet, create it."
"I don't understand what you're asking me to do."
"Alba Sorrenti. She's been making noise about wanting Rosaria's roles. Cut her opportunities. All of them."
Another pause, longer this time. "Salvatore, I can't?—"
"You can, and you will. Because if you don't, I'll find someone who can take your position. Someone more flexible about board decisions and Costa influence."
My threat has his rapt attention. Luca knows I have the resources to make good on it, knows that his comfortable position at the opera house depends on maintaining the delicate balance between competing interests.
"I'll see what I can do," he says finally.
"Good. And Luca? Next time I call, answer on the first ring."
I end the call and hand the phone back to Tano, who's been watching the entire exchange with curious attention. The young man absorbs interactions like a sponge, soaking up knowledge from every interaction. He will make a fine consigliere for my brother some day.
"Think he'll follow through?" he asks.
"He'll follow through. Men who value their comfort above their principles always do."
After Tano leaves, I find myself opening Rosaria's file again. The photographs, background information, performance reviews—all of it spread across my desk in organized chaos. I realize I've been checking this file every day for weeks now, memorizing details that should be irrelevant to business but have become essential to understanding her.
Her father's death certificate. Her early conservatory records. Reviews of performances where critics praised her technical precision but noted an emotional distance in her interpretations. All the pieces of a life shaped by obligation and expectation, by the need to be perfect rather than authentic.
