"So what do we do?"
I look out across the empty lot, calculating distances and probabilities. The war with Emilio was always inevitable, but I'd hoped to fight it on my terms, at a time of my choosing. That luxury is gone now.
"We set a trap," I say. "Force Emilio into the open. Make him choose between protecting his reputation and protecting his niece."
"And if he chooses his reputation?"
His question charges the air with electricity and I think about Rosaria standing on that stage, paint dripping from her gown, her world collapsing around her. I think about the fear in her voice when she called me, about how I wasn't there when she needed me most.
"Then I'll show him the difference between reputation and reality," I reply. "And he'll learn why they call it a blood debt."
26
ROSARIA
Uncle Emilio sits in the front parlor when I enter, his massive frame consuming the antique chair by the window. The room feels smaller with him in it—every piece of furniture, every carefully placed decoration diminished by his presence. He doesn't look up when I close the door behind me, doesn't acknowledge the exhaustion carved into my face.
I remain standing by the entrance, my coat dripping rainwater onto the Persian rug, and he says nothing at first, but I can read the accusation on his face and I know what it implies. Outside, the storm continues to rage, but the real tempest waits here in this room.
"Sit," he says finally, his voice calm and controlled.
I take the chair across from him, my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling. The stage makeup feels thick on my skin, a mask I can't remove. Traces of red paint cling to my collarbone, visible above the neckline of my shirt—evidence of tonight's humiliation branded into my flesh.
"I'm done playing games, Rosaria."
His words carry finality, each syllable measured and deliberate. This is not Uncle Emilio the protector, the man whoraised me after my father died. This is Don Emilio Costa, head of one of Rome's most powerful families, and I am no longer his beloved niece.
"If you're still seeing Salvatore DeSantis, it ends tonight."
The statement is charged with a threat. There's no question, no room for negotiation. It's a command issued from a man accustomed to absolute obedience.
"And if it doesn't," he continues, leaning forward in his chair, "I will end it myself."
My throat constricts, but I force myself to meet his gaze. The eyes that once looked at me with paternal warmth now hold only cold calculation. I am a problem to be solved, a risk to be eliminated.
"I don't need details to know what's going on," he says. "The missed performances, the mysterious trips, the way you disappear for hours without explanation. You think I'm blind? You think I don't have people watching?"
I want to deny it, to craft some elaborate lie that might buy me time. But the words won't come. The truth sits between us, ugly and undeniable.
"I have nothing to say," I whisper.
A smile crosses his lips, but there's no warmth in it. "Good. Then you understand the situation."
He stands and moves to the window, his back to me as he looks out at the storm. Lightning illuminates his profile, casting deep shadows across his weathered face.
"I built this family from nothing," he says, his voice carrying the weight of decades. "Crawled out of the gutter, fought for every scrap of power, every ounce of respect. I've killed men who threatened what I've built. Good men. Men I called friends."
Another flash of lightning, another rumble of thunder. The storm outside mirrors the one brewing in this room.
"I won't let anyone compromise this family. Not competitors, not rivals, not the police." He turns to face me again. "And not you."
The threat is unspoken but as clear as the day I was born. I am expendable, replaceable. The blood we share means nothing when weighed against the survival of his empire.
"If I have to destroy everything you love to save what I've built, I'll do it without hesitation. My bullets aren't partial to whose blood they spill."
My hand moves instinctively to my stomach, a protective gesture I hope he doesn't notice. The life growing inside me remains my secret, but for how long? How many days before someone talks, before the wrong photograph surfaces, before Uncle Emilio learns the full extent of my betrayal?
"Do we understand each other?"
