The performance was flawless. I know this the way a pianist knows when their fingers find every correct key, the way a dancer knows when their body moves in perfect harmony with music. My voice soared through every aria, each note placed with surgical precision. The audience felt it too—their silence duringVissi d'artewas absolutely reverent.
But something was wrong tonight, a presence in the theater that didn't belong, a disturbance in the careful balance of power that keeps me safe on this stage.
I reach for the cold cream, ready to scrub away Tosca's tragic mask, when the knock comes. Three sharp, confident, and demanding raps against the dressing room door.
"Miss Costa." The voice is unfamiliar, accented with something Southern, not Roman. "We need to speak with you."
Uncle Emilio must have sent them. He often uses men I don't recognize when conducting business that requires discretion. The performance must have impressed someone important, or perhaps there's family business that can't wait until morning.
"One moment."
I wrap my silk robe tighter around the costume beneath, checking my reflection once more. Even exhausted, I need to present the proper image. Uncle Emilio values appearances above all else.
The lock clicks open softly, and I pull the door open expecting to see familiar faces—men whose names I know, whose loyalty to our family runs back generations.
Instead, two strangers stand in my doorway. Both wear dark suits that fit too well to be anything but expensive. The older one has silver at his temples and eyes that catalog everything—my appearance, the room behind me, potential escape routes. The younger one keeps his hands loose at his sides, ready.
"Miss Costa." The older man steps forward without invitation, forcing me to retreat into my own dressing room. His companion follows, closing the door behind them with deliberate care. "Thank you for seeing us."
"I'm sorry, but who are you? I was expecting?—"
"Someone else?" The voice comes from the door as it opens again. A third man enters from the hallway and everything inside me goes cold.
He's younger than Uncle Emilio's usual associates, perhaps mid-thirties, with dark hair slicked back and green eyes that study me with uncomfortable intensity. His suit is perfectly tailored, his shoes polished to mirror brightness. Everything about his appearance suggests money and power, but not the kind that comes with old Roman names.
"Salvatore DeSantis." He extends his hand as if we're meeting at a dinner party rather than in my locked dressingroom after midnight. "It's an honor to finally meet Rome's most celebrated voice."
The name hits me with the force of cold water. DeSantis—the Neapolitan family that's been pressing into Roman territory, challenging Uncle Emilio's control over shipping routes and protection rackets. The enemy is sitting in my private sanctuary, speaking my name with casual familiarity.
I don't take his offered hand. "You're not supposed to be here."
"And yet here I am." His smile carries no warmth. "Your performance tonight was extraordinary. Truly exceptional artistry."
"Thank you. Now please leave."
"I've heard recordings, of course. Reviews in the papers. But hearing you sing in person..." He pauses, moving closer to my vanity table, his fingers trailing across the bottles of makeup remover and cold cream. "It's a religious experience. Transcendent."
The compliment should please me. Instead, it makes my skin crawl. There's something possessive in the way he speaks, as if my voice is something he's already claimed.
"Mr. DeSantis, I don't know how you got backstage, but this is highly inappropriate. My uncle?—"
"Your uncle isn't here." He settles into the chair beside my vanity, making himself comfortable in my space. "It's just us. And I have a proposition for you."
"I'm not interested in any propositions."
"You haven't heard it yet." His gaze moves from my face to the costume still visible beneath my robe, then back up again with deliberate slowness. "I want a private performance."
The words hang in the air between us, their meaning unmistakable. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am in my own dressing room.
"That's not something I do."
"It could be."
"No." The word comes out with sharp, visceral anger. "I perform on stage, for audiences. Not in private rooms for individual patrons."
His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in the atmosphere. The air grows heavier, charged with a tension that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
"Miss Costa, I think you misunderstand the nature of our conversation. This isn't a negotiation."
