Luca touched her hand. “Scarpia is in the audience.”
He was alone, clapping slowly. “Brava. A performance for the ages. Now—the consul?”
Her blood went cold. Baron Vitello Scarpia, the chief of the papal secret police, was a patron of the opera and a predator of singers. He collected artists the way other men collected coins—and broke them for sport.
After the rehearsal, Scarpia sent for her. Luca touched her hand
His chambers in the Palazzo Farnese smelled of incense and old leather. He was not the ogre of legend; he was worse. He was reasonable.
“You’re distracted,” Flavia whispered, adjusting the crucifix around her neck. “The High Mass scene is in ten minutes. If you miss your cue again, Maestro will have your rank, not just your voice.”
“I am a practical man.” He drank. “You have until the final curtain tomorrow. Choose: the man you love, or the man you pity.” A performance for the ages
She did not leap from the Castel Sant’Angelo that night. She simply walked home, sat at her mirror, and began to remove her stage makeup.
“Signora Flavia,” he said, pouring two glasses of dark wine. “Your Tosca is sublime. The jealousy in Act Two—where she believes Cavaradossi has betrayed her—it comes so naturally. I wonder why.”
After the final curtain, she went not to the dressing room, but to Scarpia’s box. He collected artists the way other men collected
Scarpia laughed, signed, and reached for her. “Now you are mine.”
“He is in the well of the Teatro’s courtyard,” she lied. “But first, sign the safe-conduct for Luca.”