"Then what is it?"
"A courtesy. I'm extending you the opportunity to accommodate my request willingly. If you decline, I'll simply keep sending people until you accept."
The threat is delivered with the same pleasant tone he used to compliment my performance. This is how men in his position operate—violence wrapped in silk, brutality disguised as business.
I move toward the door, but the two men are already positioned there, their bodies blocking my exit without seeming to try. Not aggressive, but unmistakably present.
"I need to leave."
"Of course. After we've reached an understanding."
"There's nothing to understand. I don't perform privately. Not for you, not for anyone."
He rises from the chair, crossing the small space between us in two measured steps. Close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle, designed to complement rather than overwhelm. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
"Your uncle has done an excellent job protecting you," he says, his voice dropping to a conversational murmur. "Creating this perfect little bubble where you can pretend the worldoperates according to rules of civility and artistic merit. But bubbles burst, Miss Costa. And when they do, reality rushes in."
His hand rises toward my throat, not fast enough to be an attack, but deliberate enough to be unmistakably threatening. I force myself to remain still as his fingers hover just above my skin, close enough to feel their warmth.
"Your voice," he continues, "is your most valuable asset. It would be a shame if something happened to compromise it."
The threat is clear, but there's something else in his touch—a hesitation that suggests he's not entirely comfortable with this approach. Good. Uncertainty is something I can use.
"If you damage my voice," I say, keeping my tone level despite the panic clawing at my chest, "you'll never hear it again. And from the way you talked about tonight's performance, that would be a significant loss for you."
His hand drops, but he doesn't step back. The space between us feels charged, dangerous. "Intelligent. I appreciate that quality."
"Then appreciate this. I'll sing for you once. One song, one time. After that, we never meet again."
"Once might not be enough."
"It will have to be."
We stare at each other in silence, both of us calculating the angles of this negotiation. He wants something from me that goes beyond a simple performance—I can see it in the way his gaze lingers on my face, the careful attention he pays to my reactions. But he's also smart enough to recognize that pushing too hard, too fast might destroy what he's trying to possess.
"One performance," he agrees finally. "But I choose the song."
"Nothing that will strain my voice. Nothing that requires extensive preparation."
"Agreed. Tomorrow evening. I'll send a car."
"Where?"
"That will be communicated to you."
He steps back, finally giving me room to breathe. The two men move away from the door at some invisible signal, clearing my path to escape my own dressing room.
"Miss Costa." He pauses at the threshold, his hand on the door handle. "Thank you for being reasonable."
I don't respond. There's nothing reasonable about any of this, and we both know it. The door closes behind them, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of expensive cologne and the echo of veiled threats.
I sink into my vanity chair, my legs suddenly unsteady. The mirror reflects the same exhausted face as before, but now I can see something else in my expression—a hardness that wasn't there an hour ago.
My hands reach for my phone, then stop. Uncle Emilio needs to know about this immediately. The DeSantis presence in Rome is no longer theoretical—it's sitting in my dressing room, making demands of our family. This is the kind of territorial violation that starts wars.
But first, I need to get through tomorrow night. One song, I promised. One performance for a man whose interest in my voice seems to extend far beyond artistic appreciation.
The cold cream sits where I left it on the vanity, waiting to wash away the last traces of tonight's triumph. But as I begin scrubbing Tosca's makeup from my skin, I realize that some transformations can't be reversed so easily.
