Page 40 of The Rose's Thorns

I set the glass down untouched.

In the bathroom, I read the instructions twice before taking the test. I have to wait three full minutes for the thing to process but it feels like three years. I set the test on the marble counter and count seconds.

One hundred and eighty heartbeats later, I look down.

Two pink lines.

I stare at them until they blur. Then I close my eyes and lean against the cool tile wall, my breath coming in short gasps. This can't be happening to me. I'll never sing again. I may never breathe again if Emilio finds out.

Pregnant.

The word repeats in my mind, growing larger and more impossible with each repetition. Pregnant with Salvatore's child. Pregnant while Alba threatens to destroy me. Pregnant while Emilio expects absolute obedience.

I think of his face when he finds out. The disappointment. The rage. The way his voice will drop to that dangerous whisper.

He'll kill me.

Not metaphorically. Not eventually. He'll actually kill me.

I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the bathroom floor, still holding the test. The pink lines haven't changed. They won't change. This is real.

Somewhere, Salvatore sits in his Neapolitan fortress, unaware that his world is about to shift.

Somewhere, Alba plans her next move.

Somewhere, Emilio conducts his business, trusting that his niece remains the obedient rose he's cultivated.

I close my eyes and try to breathe. Try to think. Try to find a path through this maze that doesn't end in blood.

But the pink lines on the test tell a different story. They speak of consequences and choices I'm not allowed to make. They whisper of a future that belongs to everyone except me.

I am twenty-one years old, pregnant with a rival's child, and completely alone.

The test falls from my numb fingers, clattering against the marble floor.

Two pink lines.

My death sentence in clinical certainty.

17

SALVATORE

The opera house buzzes with afternoon activity. Performers drift through corridors. I walk past them without acknowledgment, my focus narrowed to the administrative wing where Luca Romano keeps his office.

I scheduled this meeting under the guise of reviewing upcoming performances—to keep appearances and not draw any attention from Costa. I'm nothing more than a generous patron interested in the artistic direction of the theater. And to anyone outside the political bubble of the house, it will seem that way. To Mr. Romano, however, I will seem like an enemy.

He rises from his desk when I enter, his handshake damp with nervous sweat. "SignorDeSantis, thank you for coming. Please, sit." He gestures to the same chair I occupied only ten days ago when I sought a different type of reassurance from him—one I feel was taken too far.

Donata Serra occupies the chair beside his desk, her weathered hands folded in her lap. She watches me with sharp eyes. She's survived decades in this business by reading people and responding correctly and her presence here signifies the fact that Romano is being pressed by more sides than just mine.

"Coffee?" Luca offers, already reaching for the pot on his credenza, moving too stiffly due to anxiety and tension.

"No." I settle into the leather chair across from them. "Close the door." My order pricks him and he hesitates, then complies. The sound of the latch clicking precedes his footfall as he returns to his chair and sits.

"Now." I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "We can drop the performance. I want to know about Rosaria Costa."

The color drains from Luca's face. "I'm not sure I understand?—"

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