Tosca

“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.”

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.

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. “Signora Flavia,” he said, pouring two glasses of

“I am a practical man.” He drank. “You have until the final curtain tomorrow. Choose: the man you love, or the man you pity.”

“Why?” Flavia asked.

“It’s called acting, Excellency.”

Rome, June 1800. The air in the Teatro Argentina was thick with dust and the ghost of applause. I wonder why

The knife was swift. Scarpia fell without a sound.