Tosca ◉

Flavia’s hand trembled. She thought of the stage, of the high parapet at the Castel Sant’Angelo where Tosca leaps to her death. But this was not opera. There was no orchestra to cue a last-minute rescue.

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.

“I have a plan,” she whispered into the darkness, though no one was there. Flavia’s hand trembled

Flavia smiled—the cold, bright smile of Tosca in Act Three, when she thinks she has won. “No,” she said. “Now you are dead.”

Rome, June 1800. The air in the Teatro Argentina was thick with dust and the ghost of applause. There was no orchestra to cue a last-minute rescue

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.”

“You’re a monster,” she whispered. He was her Cavaradossi, her painter, her lover

Flavia watched from the shadows as a firing squad raised their rifles. She screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the echo of her own voice from the opera—the high C of a woman who had loved, killed, and lost everything.

“Because he suspects you hide Angiolotti, the escaped consul.” Luca’s jaw tightened. “And because he wants you.”