I close the file and check my watch. Rocco should be picking her up from the opera house in an hour, following the same routine that's been established since the fight with Bruno. But tonight, I have different plans.
The streets around the opera house are quieter at this hour, most of the evening crowd having already dispersed to restaurants and cafes. I position myself near the staff entrance, where the lighting is dim and the foot traffic minimal. Rocco's car appears right on schedule, the headlights cutting through the growing darkness as he navigates the narrow street.
I step directly into his path, forcing him to brake hard. The car stops inches from where I stand, and I can see Rocco's face through the windshield—surprise giving way to anger as he recognizes me.
I walk around to the driver's side and lean down to the window level. Rocco doesn't roll it down, but I can see him clearly through the glass, his jaw clenched with the effort of controlling his temper.
He finally lowers the window, his voice tight with barely contained aggression. "What do you want?"
"Tonight, I'll be walking her home," I say, my tone conversational despite the tension radiating from both of us.
"The hell you will. I have orders from Emilio."
"And I'm giving you new ones."
Rocco's hand moves toward his jacket, and I know he's reaching for a weapon. But I don't flinch, don't step back or show any sign of concern. Instead, I lean closer to the window.
"If Emilio keeps using her like leverage, the blowback will get personal," I tell him, and I don't mince words. "You can pass that message along."
Before he can respond, I pull out my knife and slash the front tire with one quick motion. The air hisses out in a steady stream, and Rocco's eyes widen with shock and fury.
"You son of a?—"
But I'm already walking away, disappearing into the shadows between buildings before he can finish the curse. Let him explainto Emilio why he couldn't complete his assignment. Let him deal with the consequences of my message.
I wait in the alley across from the staff entrance, watching for Rosaria to emerge. The opera house empties slowly, performers and crew filtering out in small groups, their conversations echoing off the stone walls of the surrounding buildings.
When she finally appears, she pauses at the entrance, clearly expecting to see Rocco's car. Her eyes scan the street, confusion evident in her posture, before she notices me stepping out of the shadows.
"Where's Rocco?" she asks, though she doesn't sound disappointed by his absence.
"Dealing with car trouble," I tell her. "I'll walk you home."
She considers this for a moment, then nods. We begin walking through the narrow streets of Rome as the sound of passing traffic echoes off ancient stones while the city settles into its evening rhythm around us.
"How was rehearsal?" I ask.
"Tense," she admits. "Everything feels different now. The other performers look at me sideways, the director avoids eye contact. I can feel the politics in every room I enter."
We turn onto a broader avenue, passing beneath streetlights that cast long shadows on the pavement. She walks with the grace of someone trained in stage movement, but I can still see the tension I noticed in the surveillance footage.
"Tell me about your father's records," I say, remembering a detail from her file.
She glances at me, surprised by the question. "How do you know about those?"
"You mentioned them once. You said singing used to be the only part of your life that felt like yours."
We walk in silence for several minutes before she speaks again. "He had this collection of old recordings. Opera, yes,but also jazz, blues, things that Emilio would have considered beneath the family's image. When I was young, before the formal training started, I used to listen to them and sing along."
"What changed?"
"Emilio decided I had potential. Real potential. The kind that could benefit the family." She pauses at a street corner, waiting for traffic to clear. "Once the lessons started, once the contracts were signed, singing became about perfection rather than joy. About representing something larger than myself."
"And now?"
"Now I'm not sure what it represents. Every performance feels calculated, every note chosen for its political implications rather than its artistic merit."
We cross the street and continue toward the Costa estate, the familiar route taking us through increasingly upscale neighborhoods. The houses grow larger, the security more visible, as we approach the world that shaped her.
