Page 26 of The Rose's Thorns

Emilio's hand moves faster than thought, slamming into the wall beside my head with enough force to crack the plaster. The sound echoes through the study while dust motes dance in the afternoon light streaming through heavy curtains. His face is inches from mine, his breath hot against my skin, his eyes burning with the kind of rage that has ended lives and buried bodies.

"Next time," he threatens through bared teeth, "it won't be the wall."

The threat chokes the air between us in the sudden silence, as real and solid as the crack in the plaster beside my head. I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body, sense the violence that coils beneath his expensive suit and cultured voice. This is the man who raised me, who shaped my life, who claims to love me while destroying everything I value.

"Do we understand each other?" he asks, his voice soft and deadly.

I nod because refusal means death, because resistance means disappearance, because twenty-one years of survival have taught me when to bend and when to break. But behind my compliance,behind my submission, behind my apparent acceptance of his authority, something harder and colder than his rage begins to crystallize.

Emilio steps back, smoothing his jacket casually like he's suffered a minor inconvenience. "Salvatore DeSantis is a threat to everything this family has built. Your association with him puts us all at risk. Living here will neutralize that threat while providing you with protection and legitimacy."

"Living here makes me a prisoner with a different name," I reply, surprised by the steadiness of my own voice.

"I'm not sure I asked for your opinion on this matter, Rosaria." Emilio returns to his desk, settling back into his chair as if nothing has changed. "You will learn to find happiness in your role, or you will learn to pretend convincingly enough that the difference becomes irrelevant."

I leave his study without another word, walking through corridors that echo with the sound of my isolation, past rooms filled with beauty and emptiness, toward a bedroom that serves as both sanctuary and cell. Behind me, Rocco's footsteps provide a constant reminder that my freedom remains an illusion, that my choices exist only within boundaries established by men who claim to know what's best for me.

In my room, I stand before the barred windows and stare at gardens I cannot walk, at horizons I cannot reach, at a world that continues to turn while I remain trapped in amber, preserved and displayed but no longer truly alive. The Costa estate has become my stage, but the only audience consists of guards and watchers, men who monitor my performance and report back to directors I never see.

Tomorrow will bring new restrictions, new reminders of my captivity, new evidence that my voice and my body and my future belong to men who trade in flesh and blood and loyalty. But tonight, in the gathering darkness of my gilded prison,I allow myself to imagine a different ending to this story, a different song to sing, a different stage on which to perform the drama of my own choosing.

The Rose of Rome may be plucked and caged, but roses have thorns, and captivity breeds its own kind of desperate strength. The performance continues, but the final act remains unwritten, and sometimes, the most beautiful songs emerge from the deepest darkness.

11

SALVATORE

The bass thrums through the floor of Oro Nero, vibrating up through the leather soles of my shoes and into my bones. I lean back in the VIP booth, watching Rome's elite pretend they own this city while I hold half their debts in my back pocket. The club pulses with dark energy—red lighting cuts through smoke and shadows, casting everything in shades of blood and sin. Crystal decanters line the table in front of me, filled with whiskey that tickles my senses.

I lift the glass to my lips, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat. Three days since our last conversation, since I told Rosaria I'd be watching. Emilio thinks walls and guards can keep her from me. The old fool still believes in traditional methods of control, which is why he's caged her in his estate under lock and key, attempting to keep her from me.

The music pounds around me, but all I can hear is the steady rhythm of my own pulse. Costa thinks he can cage a bird of prey and expect it to sing sweetly. He doesn't understand what he's dealing with. Rosaria isn't some delicate flower to be pressed between pages—she's fire contained in porcelain, and fire always finds a way to burn.

I drain the rest of my whiskey and catch Bruno's eye across the club. He's positioned near the bar, alert despite the chaos around him. The scar above his left eyebrow—courtesy of a knife fight in Palermo—catches the red light as he moves through the crowd toward me.

"Problem, Boss?" Bruno asks as he slides into the booth across from me.

"Emilio's playing games." I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. "He thinks keeping her locked away will make me lose interest."

Bruno's mouth curves into what might charitably be called a smile. "And will it?"

"No," I say. "It won't."

I signal to one of the servers—a blonde with sharp cheekbones who's been eyeing our booth all night—and she approaches with smooth grace. Her dress is the kind of black that absorbs light, and her smile is professionally warm.

"Another round?" she asks, her voice barely audible over the music.

"Clear the table," I tell her instead. "And make sure we're not disturbed."

She nods, gathering the empty glasses with efficient movements before disappearing back into the crowd. The booth feels larger now, more intimate. The shadows seem to press closer, creating a pocket of privacy in the middle of chaos.

"Boss." Tano's voice comes through the earpiece again. "You want me to keep watching?"

I touch the comm device at my ear. "Always. But I need you to do one more thing."

"Name it."

"Go to the estate. When you see her, put her in the car and bring her to me."

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