Chapter 1

Anthony

"I cannot sing with this belt cutting off my circulation!"

Anthony was being ridiculous, but he didn't care. He'd already talked to the general manager of the Chicago City Opera twice about the costume designer, and she'd continued to put him in clothing that made him look like a string of variably sized sausages.

Every time he looked in the mirror in his dressing room, he cringed. Yes, he was short and high-waisted, and yes, his ass was perhaps larger and juicier than the average tenor, but he knew he could look better than this .

Maestra Svoboda cut off the orchestra and rolled her eyes behind her wire-framed glasses. Anthony didn't care. Let them all wait. If the CCO wanted a world-class performance, it needed to provide a world-class costume design. There was no way he'd be out there singing high C's looking like a lumpy eclair.

The patrons shifted in their seats. Guilt stirred in Anthony's chest, but he quickly shoved it away. The audience had known what they were getting into coming to an invited dress rehearsal.

Dress rehearsals were paused for technical issues all the time, and this issue was both technical and very personal. The seats were probably filled with aging opera queens, anyway. He hated to look petty in front of the public, but they'd eat the drama up.

When something wasn't right, it wasn't right.

"Antonio, my apologies." The general manager of the opera was a thin little man in his sixties. Well, maybe little wasn't fair. He was the same height as Anthony, just under five-foot-seven. But where Anthony had a solid Italian build with thick thighs, the GM was skinny, almost frail-looking.

His name was Barry, of all things, and his daily uniform matched the tenor of his name: an oversized and wrinkled button-down shirt hanging down over a pair of khakis that pooled slightly at his feet. He wore a close-mouthed smile — a thinly veiled attempt to fake compassion and understanding — but he wouldn't be winning an Oscar anytime soon.

"It's too late for sorry, caro ," Anthony said. "I've had several meetings with you about what's-her-name—"

"—Michelle."

"Yes, Michelle. A painfully ordinary name for a painfully ordinary woman. You and I have spoken about her multiple times, and yet here we are at final dress, and my costumes still look like they're from a community theater production of Saving Private Ryan . I'm supposed to be a dashing prince!"

Don Ramiro, the lead tenor in Rossini's La Cenerentola , was one of Anthony's favorite roles. He got to be handsome, a skosh devious, occasionally mean, and he sang " Si, ritrovarla io giuro ," one of Rossini's most impressive arias.

"Antonio, I promise we'll take care of it, but we need to continue—"

Anthony reached down, unbuckled his belt, ripped it off, and threw it into the wings. Was he throwing a temper tantrum? Maybe, but it was justified. He was tired of his concerns being ignored, and he refused to look foolish onstage. He'd long left behind the "suck it up and take it' portion of his career.

Besides, it's not like making a scene would hurt his reputation. A little fiery repartee just enhanced his diva image.

Anthony locked eyes with Barry, who was slowly backing away. "Where is she now?"

"Who?"

"Michelle, the costume designer, where is she?"

"I'm right here!" The normally soft-spoken woman burst from the stage wings, her voice ringing like a trumpet playing a loud, flat note. Her long gray hair was pulled tight in a ponytail, and her beige peasant skirt flowed around her as she strode across the set.

"I have been designing productions here for twenty years, and I have never worked with such a spoiled brat!"

Normally, she exuded a sturdy, calm Midwestern charm. Anthony liked angry Michelle better. He preferred an adversary with some fight in them.

"You'd think that someone with that much experience could make a pair of pants that could fit around my ass." Anthony smirked at her. This was going to be a blast.

She came to a stop a few feet away from him, her hands tucked into her bulky gray designer's apron.

"Renee Fleming and Joyce DiDonato love my costumes. I shouldn't have to worry about the opinions of a pipsqueak tenor whose sense of fashion includes crop tops and booty shorts."

"Those are my rehearsal clothes! At least I don't go out in public dressed like I'm planning on churning butter at the commune." Anthony pursed his lips in excitement. It had been a while since he'd had a decent argument.

"Please, let's calm down…" Barry was sweating. Good.

Michelle ignored the general manager. "Perhaps you don't enjoy my designs because they make you seem like a human man, instead of the lizard person you actually are."

"Shouldn't you be off somewhere weaving hemp knapsacks?"

"You…you…your high notes aren't even that good!"

Unable to help himself, Anthony burst out laughing.

"Now we both know that's not true," he said. "If you think that, your hearing must be as off as your sense of taste."

Michelle's face turned beet red. She shrieked in frustration and hurried back to the wings.

Before exiting, she spun around and locked eyes with Barry, who was frozen in terror. Anthony could feel him vibrating from ten feet away.

"Are you going to let this flash-in-the-pan insult me like this?" Her tone was deadly.

Barry stared at her. "I…"

As he trailed off, she threw up her hands. "Asshole," she grunted under her breath as she disappeared backstage.

Barry turned back to Anthony, deep exhaustion showing in the lines of his face.

"Antonio…"

"Here's what's going to happen." Anthony took the tone he used when he knew he had the upper hand, and disagreement was not an option. "My assistant can give you names of some local costume designers that will have no problem working around the clock to polish this turd into something tolerable."

"I won't fire Michelle."

"I'm not asking you to fire her. I'm telling you that a different designer is making my costumes."

"Antonio…"

"Otherwise, you might find that I've come down with bronchitis on opening night."

Barry's eyes went wide. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. That was the signal for Anthony to wrap this up. The audience was getting restless, and he'd played with his toys for long enough.

"Jennifer!"

Anthony's personal assistant appeared instantly, as if by magic. A tall woman in her mid-twenties, she had a demeanor more like a wealthy heiress than a PA. She threaded through the chorus of men milling about the stage, her high heels clicking against the boards as she made her way to Anthony.

"What?" She didn't even make eye contact, instead typing furiously away at her phone, commenting on a picture of a bulldog puppy in a cat costume.

Anthony shook his head, smiling. He'd never been able to get her to act professionally, but she was too good at her job for it to matter. He hoped she was working on his social media accounts and not hers, at the very least.

Who was he kidding? He loved how blasé she was. It was endlessly entertaining, especially when people underestimated her.

"Take Barry here up to his office and give him the info for our Chicago costume designers." Anthony gave the still-speechless man a once-over. "Stop at my dressing room on the way and pour him a glass of whiskey."

"Fine."

Jennifer headed off at a clip, with Barry trailing helplessly behind her. As they disappeared into the darkness of the wings, Anthony turned to the company, plastering on his most charming smile.

This was what he excelled at. Was he temperamental? Sure. But he also knew how to keep people happy. He could get away with the occasional tantrum if everyone felt special.

"My friends, I'm so sorry for the disturbance. I know this dress rehearsal didn't go the way you'd expect. You are all consummate artists, and it's an honor to create this new production with all of you." It wasn't a lie. Anthony had seen how hard they'd worked. "If you'll indulge me, please join me at the bar tonight. Drinks are on me."

A murmur ran through the company. The reaction was mostly positive, which didn't surprise him. He was an expert at damage control. It wouldn't be a cheap night, but it was worth it to not have to wear what's-her-face's hideous costumes.

He turned to the pit. "Maestra?"

The conductor's face exuded a frustrated world-weariness, mostly directed at him. Anthony didn't mind. He'd gotten what he'd wanted. The conductor picked up her baton, and the orchestra launched into the cabaletta of "Si, ritrovarla."

"Dolce speranza, freddo timore, dentro al mio core stanno a pugnar."

Anthony's voice rang out from the stage, bright and present, echoing back to him all the way from the last row. The audience members' faces shifted from looks of confusion to surprised enjoyment. That was the thing about Anthony. He knew he could be frustrating, he knew he could be demanding, but when push came to shove, he was worth the trouble.

Anthony's clear tenor filled the theater. His sound always bloomed once things went his way. Now that he had dispensed with the awful costumes, he could give himself fully to the character and the music. His heart swelled as he built to the triumphant high note, his soul pouring out through the clarion metal of his voice.

***

The bar that Jennifer had chosen was perfect, no surprise there. It had an old school Italian vibe, with dark wood and antique light fixtures that cast an amber glow over the room. It made Anthony think of his nonna's favorite restaurant back in East Hanover, of Friday nights eating chicken parmigiana.

"Oh my god, your high notes sounded so good tonight. You ate. " The cute twink chorister touched Anthony on the chest.

Probably in his late twenties, the guy didn't have many years of twinkdom left, although he was holding on tight to his youth with his dyed blonde hair and his tank top and parachute pants combo. They were in direct contrast with Anthony's dark hair and classic suit.

Evidently, the twink had gotten enough liquid courage to make his move.

"Thank you, tesoro ." Anthony winked at him. "You looked great in your army uniform. Very butch."

The chorister blushed a bright pink. "I was worried the pants made me look like a twig."

"Not at all. You can't hide that perfect ass of yours."

The chorister pressed in closer to Anthony, purring and earthy like a furtive viola. "I don't want to hide it. I want to show it off."

Anthony leaned in to whisper in his ear, catching the scent of sour apple shampoo wafting off his hair. "I'd watch that show."

A voluptuous figure approached them, wrapped in scarves and dripping with stylish, over-the-top jewelry. She was practically gliding as she made her way across the crowded bar. Her red lipstick appeared burgundy in the dim lighting. Anthony kissed the twink on the cheek and squeezed a handful of his perky ass. The blonde man giggled, sighing and tracing a pattern on Anthony's stomach with his fingertips.

"You can put on your show later tonight in my hotel room," Anthony said. "Go chat with the others. I'll grab you on my way out."

The chorister smiled and stepped back. When he saw who was coming, he nodded and scurried away.

"You'll break his heart, you know." Her voice was low and mellifluous, the rich, dark sound associated with Eastern European singers.

"Lena, I'm surprised you came out." The Polish mezzo-soprano usually retreated to her hotel room after rehearsal. "A bar doesn't seem like your scene."

"I'm not drinking, darling." Lena kissed Anthony on each cheek before raising her glass of clear liquid and giving it a shake. "Club soda. I'm surprised you are, though."

"It's two whole days until opening. Plenty of time to recover." Anthony downed the rest of his whiskey and set the glass on the bar.

"Drunk and flirting with some chorus boy. You must leave behind a string of broken hearts in every city."

"Oh please." Lena was being so awkwardly straight, one of Anthony's least favorite things. Why did the heterosexuals make such a big deal about sex? "Everyone knows that I'm leaving in two weeks. No surprises."

"I've seen that boy looking at you during rehearsals. It's pure infatuation. He's going to sleep with you because he thinks that's all he can get from you."

"He's not wrong." Anthony shrugged. It was the nature of the thing. He didn't have time for relationships. His schedule was grueling, and anything more than a one-night stand was baggage he couldn't afford.

"People aren't secondary characters in the story of your life, Anthony ."

"Don't call me that." Anthony looked around, anxiety spiking in his chest. Hopefully, everyone was too tipsy and involved in their own conversations to overhear.

"You may pretend to be Antonio Bianchi, heartthrob Italian tenor, but I knew you when you were Tony Bianchi, commuting to grad school from his grandma's house in New Jersey."

"Only my nonna calls me Tony." Lena was really getting on his nerves. He appreciated her honesty, but he liked his illusions. Being Antonio made him feel larger-than-life and brave, not like scared seven-year-old Tony, who lost his parents in a car accident.

"Fair enough, dear." Lena took a sip of her drink, her lips leaving behind traces of burgundy on the glass. "But people aren't disposable. You can't toy with their hearts. And you can't throw fits every time someone puts you in an outfit you don't like."

"The pants were cutting off my breath!"

"Were they?" Lena raised an eyebrow. "Because to me, it seemed like you stopped a dress rehearsal and tried to get a costume designer fired because you thought she made you look fat."

"That's not—"

"Doesn't matter. The people around you have feelings."

"They're all happy now!" Anthony gestured to the packed bar. It was filled with laughing, tipsy singers and musicians. "They're having a great time!"

"Except Michelle, I'd imagine."

"She's bad at her job. She doesn't get to be happy." Anthony was speaking louder now. He was tired of being provoked. "I don't understand why you're being so awful."

" I'm being awful?" Lena drained her glass and put it on the counter. "Darling, I've been your friend for a long time. Even the most talented of assholes eventually get fired. You won't always be able to get out of it by batting your eyelashes and buying everyone drinks."

"I…" Anthony was stunned. The whole point of having friends was for them to be nice to you. Tough love was for other people.

"Now, I need to get my beauty sleep." Lena kissed him again on both cheeks and drifted away through the chattering sea of tipsy musicians. As she reached the door to the bar, she turned and called out a last goodbye.

"Have fun with the chorus twink!"