“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.”
The knife was swift. Scarpia fell without a sound. Scarpia fell without a sound
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. He collected artists the way other men collected
The reason stood in the wings: Captain Luca Rinaldi, a young officer of the Republic’s army. His uniform was still crisp, but his eyes were those of a man who had seen too much. He was her Cavaradossi, her painter, her lover in secret—for in Rome, loyalty to the new French-backed Republic was treason against the Bourbon king. At the same time
He smiled. “Luca Rinaldi was seen near the Porta del Popolo last night. At the same time, Angiolotti slipped past the guards.” He pushed a sheet of paper toward her. It was a death warrant, signed but unnamed. “Tell me where the consul is hidden, and Luca lives. Refuse, and I will fill his body with more holes than a colander. Then, tomorrow night, you will sing Tosca for me. Alone.”
But outside, soldiers were already dragging Luca into the courtyard. Scarpia had given orders before the performance: If I do not send a signal by midnight, shoot the captain.
“Because he suspects you hide Angiolotti, the escaped consul.” Luca’s jaw tightened. “And because he wants you.”