Relief floods through me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet, Rosa..." His eyes darken and he shakes his head. "You know I only want to protect you."
I'm too overjoyed to notice the tension weaving across his forehead. Rising, I press a kiss to his forehead and whisper, "Thank you," in his ear again, then rush off to dress.
The drive to Rome takes forty minutes. Bruno sits in the front passenger seat, eyes constantly scanning the mirrors. Two more men follow in a separate car, close enough to intervene but far enough to avoid drawing attention.
The Teatro dell'Opera di Roma stands empty in the late morning sun. Most of the cast and crew won't arrive until evening rehearsal. Perfect for what I need.
Luca meets me at the stage door, his weathered face creased with worry. "Rosaria, where the hell have you been!"
Behind him, Donata emerges from the shadows. My vocal coach looks older than when I saw her last, silver hair pulled back severely. Her eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion.
"The board has been asking questions," she says, "about your absences. About the rumors."
I push past them both, moving toward the stage. "Let them ask." This is my cathedral, my sanctuary. The only place where I've ever felt truly alive.
I walk to center stage and close my eyes. The familiar silence presses against my eardrums. Then I open my mouth and let my voice fill the void, and even without accompaniment it sounds heavenly.
The aria flows from my throat without conscious thought—Puccini'sO Mio Babbino Caro. The notes soar toward the painted ceiling, pure and crystalline. For the first time in days, I remember what it feels like to be powerful. To command attention through beauty rather than fear.
The melody swells around me, bouncing off marble columns and velvet curtains. My voice climbs higher, stronger, until it seems to shake the very foundations of the building. This is who I am. This is what they can never take from me.
Behind me, Donata begins the piano accompaniment. Her fingers find the keys with muscle memory, supporting my voice with rich harmonies. Luca watches from the wings, tears streaming down his cheeks.
The final note holds for eight perfect seconds before fading into silence.
Then the spell breaks.
Heavy footsteps echo from the lobby, accompanied by raised voices. The board chairman, Maestro Ricci, strides down the center aisle with two board members flanking him. His face is flushed with panic and rage.
"What the hell is she doing here?" he shouts.
Luca steps forward. "Maestro, please?—"
"Get her out. Now." Ricci climbs the steps to the stage, pointing an accusatory finger at me. "The board has been threatened. Death threats. All because of her and this mess she's created."
My blood turns to ice. "What threats?"
"Don't play innocent." His voice cracks with hysteria. "Emilio Costa is blaming you for the attacks. Three of his businesses burned to the ground last night. He says it's your fault for whoring yourself to his enemies."
I stagger backward, one hand pressed against my stomach. "That's?—"
"You are officially suspended from all productions, effective immediately." Ricci pulls a folded paper from his jacket. "By order of the board of directors, your contract is terminated."
The document flutters to the floor between us. My life's work, reduced to legal text on expensive paper.
Donata's hands freeze over the piano keys. Luca makes a strangled sound of protest. But I can't speak, can't breathe, can't think beyond the crushing weight of loss.
Bruno appears at my side, his presence solid and reassuring. "Time to go, Miss."
I let him guide me off the stage, away from the ruins of my career. The exit door closes behind us with a final, damning click, and all I can do is stumble along beside him. I feel numb as he ushers me into the car, as he climbs into the driver's seat and as the car rolls out onto the road. I stare out the window at roads I've memorized, homes, farms, meadows... Nothing feels like home anymore. Nowhere feels safe.
Everything I've worked for since childhood is gone. The Rose of Rome is dead.
When we return to Salvatore's estate, I go straight to the bathroom and lock the door. The tile is cold against my bare feet as I sink to the floor, back pressed against the bathtub. The tears come in violent waves, torn from my chest with each ragged breath.
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, behind my eyes. The baby flutters inside me, responding to my distress with tiny movements that make me cry harder.
