The silence on the other end of the line lingers long enough that I wonder if the connection has been severed. When Emilio finally speaks, his voice carries a different quality—the first hint of uncertainty I've ever heard from him.
"You're threatening children," he says, as if the observation itself constitutes a defense. "You're talking about war over a woman you had to take in order to have her."
"I'm talking about protecting what's mine," I correct, ending the call before he can respond. The finality of the gesture sends its own message—negotiations are over, lines have been drawn, and the consequences of crossing them have been clearly defined.
Gianni stares at me with undisguised horror, his face pale with the recognition of what I've just set in motion. "You'vedeclared war on the Costas," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not territorial disputes, not business conflicts—actual war. Do you understand what that means?"
I continue selecting weapons. "It means we stop pretending this is about territory or respect or any of the other convenient lies we tell ourselves," I reply, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "It means we acknowledge what this has always been about—love, obsession, and the lengths a man will go to protect what he can't bear to lose."
"This is reckless," Gianni warns, but he's already moving to help me, his loyalty overriding his better judgment. "This is personal vengeance."
"Yes," I agree, holstering the pistol and reaching for something with more firepower. "It is. And it's going to work."
22
ROSARIA
The opera house greets me as if I never left. The marble floors gleam under afternoon light, and familiar voices echo through rehearsal rooms. I walk down corridors I know by heart, past posters where my face once smiled from every wall. Now there are only a few scattered remnants—my image replaced by Alba's newest publicity shots.
Luca's office door stands open. He doesn't look up when I enter, his attention fixed on papers spread across his desk. The silence grows until he finally raises his head, with a neutral and cold expression. "Sit."
I take the chair across from him and wait. The clock on his wall ticks through seconds that feel endless.
"The board barely approved your reinstatement," he says finally. "Emilio made the decision for them."
My hands remain folded in my lap. I expected this.
"You'll have a role in next month's production ofTosca. Second soprano. Limited appearances."
Second soprano. In a production where I should be carrying the lead. The insult burns, but I swallow it.
"I understand."
"Do you?" His voice sharpens. "Because I'm not sure you understand anything anymore. You disappear for ten days, you miss rehearsals and you cost this house credibility and money."
I meet his gaze and say nothing.
"If you step out of line again—if you miss a single rehearsal, if you cause any more scandal—the board will drop you. And Emilio will let it happen."
The threat settles between us. I nod once.
"Good. Rehearsals begin Monday. Don't be late."
I stand and leave like the good soldier I am, trained to obey orders, and already, I'm regretting my choice of leaving Salvatore behind. My heart aches to have only the best of both worlds, but my circumstances won't ever allow that. I will be forced to choose, and when I do, it will hurt like hell.
The Costa estatewelcomes me back as if my absence were nothing more than a brief vacation. The same guards nod at the gates. The same servants move through familiar routines. Everything appears unchanged, but I feel the shift in how they watch me now—careful glances, whispered conversations that stop when I pass.
Rocco was waiting at my apartment when I returned after rehearsal, and there was no way I could avoid him or the orders my uncle gave him. Now I know I'll be watched more carefully. There won't be any more sneaking out or spiriting away to see Salvatore.
Emilio waits in the main sitting room, a glass of wine in his hand and evening papers spread before him. He looks up when I enter. His smile is sharp and cold as he says, "There she is. Mywayward niece, returned to the fold." I remain standing near the doorway. "Sit down, Rosaria. We need to discuss your future."
I take the chair farthest from him, easing into it carefully. My palms are sweating, but I don't wipe them on my skirt to dry them. It would only show him how terrified I am of his reaction.
"Your little adventure is over," he continues. "I hope you've learned something about responsibility. About honor. About what happens when you forget who you are and where you come from." His words carry the weight of disappointment, as if I've brought shame instead of carrying his name to international stages. "You've damaged your reputation. You've damaged mine. But we can rebuild—if you remember your place."
I nod because he expects it but not because I agree with him. Heavy sadness washes over my entire soul as I sink under the tone his voice holds. He thinks it's over, that I have turned my back on Salvatore, and while I left the DeSantis estate, I truly hope it's not over. My heart is a jumble of emotions—devotion to my family line, affection for someone I can't have, fear over making the wrong choice.
"No more scandals. No more disappearances. You'll perform when and where I tell you. You'll appear at events that benefit the family. You'll remember that everything you are exists because I allow it."
