Uncle Emilio sits in my living room when I enter, his massive frame filling the chair by the window. He doesn't look up when I come in, doesn't acknowledge the paint still clinging to my hair or the tears I've finally allowed to fall.
"Uncle," I begin, but he raises a hand to silence me.
When he finally meets my eyes, I see something there that terrifies me more than any scream from the audience, any splash of red paint across my chest. I see the look of a man who has reached the end of his patience, who has run out of second chances to give.
The rain continues to fall outside the windows, washing the city clean while I stand dripping in my own living room, waiting for judgment from the only family I have left.
25
SALVATORE
Bruno places the tablet on my desk with the care of a man handling explosives. The screen shows a frozen frame from last night's performance—Rosaria in ivory silk, her mouth open in song, unaware of what's about to destroy her.
"It's all over the internet," he says quietly. "Every news site, every social media platform. They're calling it the scandal of the season."
I press play and watch the horror unfold. Rosaria's voice fills my office, pure and crystalline, carrying across the theater with the power that first captivated me. Then comes the scream, the charge from the orchestra pit, the splash of red across her chest. The camera shakes as whoever's filming tries to get a better angle, but I can see everything—the shock on her face, the way she freezes center stage, the chaos erupting around her.
The woman who throws the paint screams accusations about whores and traitors, about Mafia connections, every word designed to cut deep. The security guards drag her away, but the damage spreads through the audience faster than blood through water.
I watch it again, studying every frame, every angle. The way Rosaria's hands come up to touch the red staining her gown. The flash of cameras capturing her humiliation for posterity. The curtain falling on what might be the end of her career.
The tablet flies across the room and shatters against the wall. Bruno doesn't flinch, but his eyes follow the trajectory of my anger.
"Find out everything about the woman who did this," I say, my voice deadly calm. "Alba Sorrenti. I want to know where she lives, where she eats, where she sleeps. I want to know who paid her and how much."
"Already on it," Bruno replies. "But Boss, the police arrested her at the scene. She's in custody."
"Then she'll have to wait." I reach for my phone and dial the opera house. The receptionist puts me through to three different departments before finally connecting me to Luca Romano's office. His secretary tells me he's unavailable.
"Tell him it's Salvatore DeSantis calling about last night's incident."
There is a pause but when she returns, she sounds firmer in her resolve. "I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Romano is not taking calls at this time."
I end the call and grab my jacket. "We're going to Rome."
The drive takes two hours, every minute stretching my patience thinner. Bruno handles the car with his usual precision, but I can feel the tension radiating from him. He knows what this means—that we're crossing into hostile territory, that Emilio's people will be watching for exactly this kind of move.
The Teatro dell'Opera di Roma sits in the heart of the city, its neoclassical façade hiding the corruption within. But today it looks different. Police cars line the street, officers stationed at every entrance. The media circus has attracted more than just journalists—thecarabinieriare treating this as a security threat.
"They're expecting us," Bruno observes as we park across the street.
I study the scene through the windshield. Two uniformed officers guard the main entrance, their hands resting casually on their weapons. A third man in plainclothes watches from the steps, his eyes scanning the crowd with professional alertness.
"Then we don't disappoint them."
We cross the street together, moving through the crowd of reporters and curious onlookers. The officers at the door step forward as we approach, their postures shifting from alert to ready. But Luca Romano appears before they can act, emerging from the lobby with his hands raised in a gesture of false diplomacy.
"Mr. DeSantis," he says, his voice carrying just far enough for the nearby reporters to hear. "I'm afraid this isn't a good time."
"I want to see her," I reply, keeping my voice level despite the fury burning in my chest.
"Miss Costa is not available. She's... recovering from last night's incident." Luca's eyes dart toward the officers flanking us. "Perhaps we could arrange a meeting at a more appropriate time."
"Now is appropriate."
Luca steps closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "If you don't leave immediately, these officers will remove you. The building is under police protection following last night's security breach. Any attempt to force your way inside will result in your arrest."
Behind Luca, I catch sight of a familiar face. Rocco Costa stands in the lobby shadows, his bulk unmistakable even in the dim light. Emilio's enforcer watches us through the glass doors, his hand resting inside his jacket. Bruno notices him too, his posture shifting subtly as he prepares for trouble.
