20
ROSARIA
Dawn breaks through the villa's windows, streaking floors with fingers of light that have become both sanctuary and prison. I slip from the bed where Salvatore still sleeps, his face relaxed in a way I rarely see during waking hours. The confession that passed between us last night feels fragile in the morning light, a moment of vulnerability that might dissolve the instant he opens his eyes.
The villa's security system tracks my movement through motion sensors, but I know its blind spots now after a week of careful observation. The corner of the east wing, where the stone walls are thickest and the signal cuts in and out, gives me the privacy I need. My phone feels foreign in my hands after days of surveillance and monitored calls. The number I dial belongs to a life that already feels distant.
"Rosaria?" Luca's voice crackles through static, relief and panic warring in his tone. "Where are you? The board is in chaos. They're saying you've abandoned your contract." His frantic words awaken dread inside me, each syllable a reminder of everything I stand to lose. "If you don't return immediately,they're going to replace you permanently. TheToscaproduction, the spring season—all of it will go to Alba."
I press my back against the cold stone wall, fighting the nausea that rises in my throat. "How long do I have?" I ask, though I already know the answer will be impossible to accept. "How long before they make it official?"
"Days, maybe hours," Luca replies, his voice breaking up as the signal wavers. "The board meets this afternoon. Emilio's influence only goes so far when money is involved, and your absence is costing everyone." The connection crackles with interference, but his next words come through clearly. "They're calling it professional suicide, Rosaria. Whatever hold DeSantis has over you, it's not worth destroying everything you've worked for—even if he is paying to make things happen."
The line goes dead, leaving me alone with the weight of his warning. I stare at the phone in my hands, watching as the signal bars disappear entirely. The villa's isolation, which Salvatore calls protection, has become a barrier between me and the only identity I've ever been allowed to claim. The Rose of Rome exists only when she performs, only when she stands before audiences and transforms breath into something transcendent.
I make my way back through corridors lined with art worth more than most people earn in a lifetime. The luxury here is suffocating, beautiful in its perfection but empty of any connection to who I was before Salvatore's obsession reshaped my world. My reflection catches in polished surfaces as I pass, showing me a woman I barely recognize—hair loose around my shoulders instead of pinned for performance, wearing clothes chosen for comfort rather than scrutiny.
In the bedroom, Salvatore sleeps with one arm stretched across the space I vacated, as if his body instinctively reaches for mine even in unconsciousness. His face is peaceful, younger without the harsh lines that power and violence etch into hisfeatures during waking hours. For a moment, I almost crawl back into bed, almost let myself believe that love might be enough to rebuild a life from the ashes of the one I'm losing.
Instead, I move to the closet and pull out the single bag I find buried in its depths. My hands shake as I fold the few belongings that remain mine—clothes that smell more of this place than of home, a book I haven't been able to concentrate on, and my mother's ring, which I left on the dresser for safe keeping. Everything else belongs to the life Salvatore has constructed around me, beautiful and suffocating in equal measure.
The sound of rustling fabric wakes him. I hear the shift of sheets, the catch in his breathing as consciousness returns. When I turn around, he's sitting up in bed, watching me with eyes that have gone from sleepy to alert in the space of a heartbeat. His gaze moves from my face to the bag in my hands, understanding dawning with painful clarity.
"You're leaving," he says, his voice flat with the kind of control that precedes violence. "After everything we said last night, after what we admitted to each other, you're still going to run." He stands slowly, and I can see the careful way he holds himself, as if sudden movement might shatter the fragile peace we built in the kitchen hours ago.
He's a beautiful man despite the scars marring his chest and arms. The ink, stained into his skin, tells a story of a life I'm not sure I know how to be a part of. I love this man, but my life is on a stage, not fighting turf wars and fearing whether he comes home at night. I want to sing.
"I have to," I reply, setting the bag down but keeping my hand on its strap. "I called Luca. The board is meeting today. If I don't return, they'll replace me permanently." The words feel inadequate, failing to capture the desperation that claws at my chest. "This is the only thing I have left that belongs to me, Salvatore. The only piece of myself that you haven't claimed."
"You belong to more than that now," he says, moving closer with the predatory grace that marks every step he takes. "You belong to me, to our child, to the future we're building together." His voice carries the weight of absolute certainty, as if saying the words makes them true. "Your voice is beautiful, but it's not the only beautiful thing about you."
"It's the only thing that's mine," I insist, backing toward the door even as every instinct screams at me to stay. "Everything else—my family, my protection, my choices—has always belonged to someone else. When I sing, when I stand on that stage, I'm not Emilio's niece or your possession. I'm myself." The confession tears at my throat, raw with years of suppressed longing for autonomy.
"And what happens when you walk back into Emilio's world?" Salvatore asks, his tone deceptively calm. "What happens when he decides you're more valuable as a bargaining chip than as a performer?" He reaches for me, but I step away, maintaining the distance that might save us both from another painful scene. "You think you're choosing freedom, but you're walking back into a different kind of cage."
"At least it's a cage I understand," I reply, though the words taste bitter. "At least in that world, I know the rules, know what's expected of me." I pick up the bag again, its weight feeling both insignificant and enormous. "Here, I don't know who I'm supposed to be. I don't know if you want the woman who loves you or the trophy who validates your power... Maybe you just want the baby." The thought makes me shudder.
"I want it all, Rosa," he says without hesitation. "I want all of you, not pieces you're willing to share." His honesty cuts through my defenses, making it harder to maintain the distance I need to walk away. "Stay, and I'll find a way to get you back on that stage. Stay, and we'll build something that doesn't require you to choose between love and identity."
The offer tempts me more than it should, but I've heard promises before. "You can't guarantee that," I tell him, though my voice quavers with uncertainty. "You can't control the opera world any more than Emilio can, not without destroying the very thing you're trying to preserve." I move toward the door, each step requiring more effort than the last. "I have to try to save what I can while there's still time."
He doesn't try to stop me physically, though I can see the restraint it costs him. "If you leave now, there might not be a way back," he warns, his voice rough with emotion he's struggling to contain. "Emilio won't forgive your absence. He'll use it as proof that you can't be trusted, that you're a liability rather than an asset."
"Then I'll have to prove him wrong," I say, opening the door and stepping into the hallway. "I'll have to show them all that I'm worth more than the sum of my connections." The bravado sounds false even to my own ears, but it's the only armor I have against the fear that threatens to paralyze me.
I walk through the villa's corridors for what might be the last time, past security cameras that have recorded every moment of my captivity and protection. The staff I encounter look away, trained to ignore the personal dramas that play out in their workspace. At the main entrance, Bruno stands with his back to me, speaking quietly into his radio. His military bearing doesn't change as I approach, but I can feel his awareness of my presence.
"I'm leaving," I tell him, though he hasn't asked. "Don't try to stop me." The words carry more authority than I feel, but he nods once, stepping aside to let me pass. His silence might be respect or might be acknowledgment that some battles aren't worth fighting. And suddenly, I realize I was never in prison at all.
For a moment I pause, looking back at the house. Salvatore stands on the stoop watching, pain in his expression, but he's not chasing me. All this time, I could've walked through the doors at any second. All this time, I was free. No one would've stopped me like I feared. And here I am walking away from that sort of freedom to return to my cage, just like Salvatore warned.
I turn to go, still aching on the inside. My fingers deftly work over the keyboard of my phone as soon as I'm out of line of sight. None of Salvatore's men follow, at least not that I can see, and by the time I reach a bakery three full blocks from where the house is nestled into Florence's wealthy district, I see my ride.
The car waiting isn't one of Salvatore's. I arranged it through a contact who owes me favors rather than loyalty, someone who understands that discretion sometimes means helping people disappear. The driver doesn't look at me as I slide into the backseat, professional in his indifference.
The countryside rolls past in a blur of olive groves and ancient stone, beautiful in a way that feels like farewell. I press my hand to my stomach, where new life grows despite the chaos surrounding its creation. The child will be born into a world divided between two powerful men who both claim to love me, both certain they know what's best for my future. I wonder if it will inherit my voice or Salvatore's determination, if it will find freedom or become another pawn in games it never chose to play.
Rome appears on the horizon, its familiar skyline both welcoming and threatening. I'm returning to a world that shaped me but never truly accepted me, walking back into the arms of a man who raised me but never freed me. The theater where I've spent my adult life awaits, along with colleagues who see me as competition and patrons who view me as entertainment. I'm trading one form of captivity for another,but at least this cage comes with a stage where I can transform suffering into art.
