Page 77 of Broken Crown

The general manager of the theater and the director of the opera greeted us, both bowing and speaking in rapid Italian of their pleasure at having a Diamanti at their theater. After gently reminding them to speak English in front of Sabrina, I led her toward the private royal box they had reserved just for us.

Sabrina took in the elegant majesty of the opera house. The Teatro Marrucino was an extravagant wonder from a time long past, with three tiers of private boxes draped in wine-dark velvet. Crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling painted with scenes of gods and muses, their light dancing across burnished brass moldings that adorned every arch and column.

"It's so beautiful. It's like standing inside a jewelry box, but where is the rest of the audience?"

I wrapped my arms around her middle from behind and whispered against her neck, my lips brushing the sensitive spot below her ear. "This is a private performance just for us."

She shivered under my touch.

When she turned, her smooth cheek brushed my jaw, our faces close enough that I could count her eyelashes. "Seriously? Just for us? They don't mind?"

I chuckled, tightening my grip on her middle, pulling her flush against me. "No, sweetheart. You'll learn that people are usually willing to do anything you want for a price."

She stiffened slightly at my off-hand comment, her body going rigid against mine. "Not everyone is like that."

I tightened my grasp around her, deliberately trapping her against the hard planes of my body, both of us thinking of her continued refusal to marry me. "True. Of course, that just means I haven't found the right price… Not everything is about money."

She tried to step back and faltered slightly.

Placing an arm more securely around her waist, I led her up the carpeted stairs to the royal box.

The royal box stood at the center of the horseshoe, offering a perfect view of the stage and the magnificent curtain—a vast expanse of Venetian red, embroidered with aureate filigree—emblazoned with the theater's crest.

Two liveried footmen opened the doors as we approached.

Sabrina gasped as we entered the box.

Per my instructions, all the seats except for two had been removed.

In their place stood a table draped in white linen and adorned with an obscene display of indulgence.

Crystal stands held delicate cannoli filled with sweetened ricotta and studded with pistachios, miniature cassatas glistening with candied fruit, and rum-soaked babas topped with fresh cream. Alongside these were sfogliatelle with their distinctive seashell shape, and bomboloni dusted with powdered sugar, oozing with velvety custard.

The savory offerings were equally impressive—paper-thin slices of prosciutto di Parma aged for thirty-six months, alongside chunks of aged Parmigiano-Reggiano drizzled with decades-old balsamic vinegar. There were plump olives, artichoke hearts, and figs stuffed with Gorgonzola, all artfully arranged around a centerpiece of Beluga caviar nestled in crushed ice.

A bottle of Dom Perignon rested in a silver bucket of ice, condensation beading on its surface.

A server stepped forward with two glasses on a platter, the crystal catching and refracting the warm glow of the antique brass fixtures surrounding us.

I helped Sabrina out of her coat and the scarf, laying them and my own coat over the backs of our seats, then picked up the two glasses and handed one to Sabrina, deliberately brushing my fingers against hers.

Clinking the glasses, I toasted, "To going back to the beginning."

Her brow furrowed slightly, but she gave me a hesitant smile and drank, her throat working as she swallowed. I found myself mesmerized by the movement.

Dismissing the server, I offered Sabrina the lush seat to my right.

Perching on the edge of the red cushion, she leaned forward, taking in the sumptuous stage decor.

The elaborate set for Rigoletto was a masterpiece of illusion and opulence. The sinister court of the Duke of Mantua loomed below us, with towering marble columns and sweeping staircases creating a world of privilege and corruption.

Ornate chandeliers hung overhead, casting patterns of light and shadow that glimmered with foreboding, while the carmine embellishments and gilt accents of the set hinted at both luxury and blood.

She turned to me, her eyes bright with excitement. "So are they really going to put on the whole opera just for us?"

I caressed her back, grasping a silky curl that brushed against the back of my hand, letting it slide between my fingers, tugging just enough to make her gasp. "Just for us, babygirl."

The opening strains of the opera began.