25. Rocco
— ? —
Rocco
The morning after the gala, Fiorella’s lawyer calls me.
“Mr. Zangari,” he says, his voice tight with barely contained frustration, “my client would like to return certain materials that were inadvertently included in the collaboration files. She believes they may belong to your wife.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
“Inadvertently,” I repeat. “That’s an interesting word choice.”
“My client maintains that any materials found in her possession were acquired through legitimate means and that this is simply a misunderstanding-”
“Your client stole my wife’s songbook and used it to build a career-saving collaboration. That’s not a misunderstanding. That’s theft.”
A pause. “Perhaps we could arrange a meeting to discuss-”
“Send the materials. Today. All of them. And then we’ll see what needs to be discussed.”
I hang up and find Senna standing in the doorway of our bedroom, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
“That was Fiorella’s lawyer?”
“She wants to return your notebook.”
Senna’s face does something complicated - relief and anger and something that might be grief, all tangled together.
“She kept it this whole time. She had it, and she-”
“I know.”
“She could have given it back at any point. She could have admitted what she did.”
“But she didn’t. And now she’s only returning it because the video went viral and she’s trying to get ahead of the story.”
“Will it work?”
“No.” I cross to her and take her hands. “We have too much. Delia’s testimony, Lucia’s email, your dated photographs. The notebook is just the final piece.”
“What happens next?”
“I hold a press conference. I tell the truth. All of it.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “You don’t have to do that. The video is already out there. People are drawing their own conclusions.”
“Conclusions aren’t the same as facts. I want there to be no doubt. No ambiguity. No room for Fiorella to spin this into another victim narrative.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“You’ll have to admit that you didn’t notice. That you sang my song for weeks without realizing where it came from.”
The words land like a blow, because she’s right. The press conference won’t just be about Fiorella’s crimes. It’ll be about my failures too.
“I know,” I say. “I’m prepared for that.”
“You’re willing to humiliate yourself in public to defend me?”
“Senna.” I cup her face in my hands. “I would do a lot more than that.”
***
The notebook arrives by courier that afternoon.
I’m the one who opens the box, but Senna is the one who reaches inside and pulls out the battered, coffee-stained pages that changed everything.
“Oh God,” she breathes. “It’s really - this is it. This is my book.”
She flips through the pages with trembling hands, and I watch her face as she sees her own handwriting again - the torn corner, the coffee stain on page forty-three, the distinctive marks that match exactly with the photographs she emailed herself over a decade ago.
She’s shown me some of her other work over the years, fragments and ideas, but never this notebook. Never these particular songs.
“Look.” She points to a page near the middle. “This is the song. The one from the showcase. I wrote it when I was twenty-two. I was sitting in my parents’ living room at three in the morning because I couldn’t sleep, and I just-” Her voice breaks. “I just started writing.”
“Can you show me?”
She holds the notebook so I can see the page, and there it is - the melody that broke my block, the lyrics I thought were a gift from a collaborator, all of it in Senna’s handwriting, dated years before I ever met her.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I should have known. I should have recognized-”
“How could you? You knew I wrote music, but you never heard this particular song.”
“I should have asked. I should have-”
“Rocco.” She puts her hand on my arm. “We’ve been through this. I know you’re sorry. Right now, I need you to focus on what happens next.”
I take a breath. “Right. The press conference.”
“What are you going to say?”
“The truth. That Fiorella stole your work. That she bribed her way into the collaboration. That she leaked your divorce filing to make you look like the villain when she was the one who’d been lying all along.”
“And about us?”
“That I failed you. That I was so lost in my own problems that I forgot to be your husband. That every criticism leveled at me is deserved, and that I’m spending the rest of my life trying to make it right.”
Senna stares at me for a long moment.
“You really are different,” she says quietly. “The old Rocco would never have admitted any of that in public.”
“The old Rocco was an idiot.”
“He was.” A small smile crosses her face. “But he had good taste in women.”
***
The next morning, the press conference is held at the label offices, in a room full of journalists and cameras and the particular energy of people who know they’re about to witness something significant.
Marco stands at the back looking like he’s aged ten years in the past twenty-four hours. His involvement in the bribery scheme hasn’t been formally documented yet, but he knows it’s coming. The fear on his face is almost satisfying.
I take my place at the podium, and Senna stands beside me - not behind me, beside me, where she should have been all along.
“Thank you all for coming,” I begin. “I have a statement to make regarding recent events, and then I’ll take questions.”
The room goes quiet.
“Over the past several weeks, there has been significant speculation about my marriage, my wife, and my recent collaboration with Fiorella Caswell. I’m here to set the record straight.”
I take a breath.
“The song that formed the centerpiece of my comeback - the one that was credited to myself and Ms. Caswell - was not written by her. It was stolen. From my wife. From a notebook of original compositions that Senna wrote over a decade ago, before we ever met.”
The murmuring starts immediately.
“I have in my possession the original notebook, which was returned to us yesterday by Ms. Caswell’s legal team. I also have dated photographs that Senna took of these pages years ago, proving beyond any doubt that she is the original author of this work.”
I pull out the documentation - the notebook, the printed emails, the timestamps that tell a story no one can deny.
“Additionally, I have evidence that Ms. Caswell bribed her way into the collaborator position. A witness who was present during the transaction has provided testimony and preserved messages proving that Ms. Caswell paid a substantial sum of money to secure this opportunity.”
More murmuring. Marco’s face has gone gray.
“Finally, I have proof that Ms. Caswell was the source of the leaked divorce filing that was used to smear my wife’s reputation.
A journalist who received the original pitch has come forward with the documentation, including the distinctively cropped photograph of the filing that appeared in all subsequent coverage. ”
I pause, letting the weight of it settle.
“I want to be clear about something. My wife is not to blame for any of this. She did nothing wrong. She was stolen from, lied about, and publicly humiliated while I stood by, too caught up in my own problems to notice what was happening right in front of me.”
I turn to look at Senna, and my voice softens.
“I failed her. For eighteen months, I failed her in every way a husband can fail a wife. I neglected her, ignored her gifts, and made her feel invisible in her own home. The criticism I’ve received is deserved. What she’s received is not.”
I turn back to the cameras.
“Effective immediately, the song in question will be re-released with proper credit given to its true author: Senna Caswell-Zangari. All royalties and recognition will be transferred to her. This is not a gesture or a gift. It’s a correction of a wrong that should never have happened.”
“Mr. Zangari-” a journalist calls out.
“One more thing.” I hold up my hand. “I’ve also received a statement from Matteo, the young singer my wife has been producing.
He wishes to make clear that he and Senna had never met before roughly three weeks after she moved out of our home.
The story claimed the affair began a week before Senna left our home - which means a full month before she and Matteo ever laid eyes on each other.
Matteo has confirmed this personally, and Elena - who introduced them - can verify the timeline.
The studio’s scheduling records support it.
They were complete strangers until the day of that first session. ”
I step back from the podium.
“I’ll take questions now.”
The room erupts. Hands shoot up everywhere, voices overlapping.
“Mr. Zangari, are you saying you were completely unaware the song was stolen?”
“I was unaware,” I say steadily. “And that’s on me. I was so desperate to break the creative block that I didn’t ask the questions I should have asked. I trusted someone I shouldn’t have trusted, and my wife paid the price for my carelessness.”
“But you worked on the song for weeks. You promoted it as the centerpiece of your comeback. How can you claim ignorance?”
“I’m not claiming ignorance as an excuse.
I’m stating it as a fact and taking responsibility for it.
” I grip the podium edge. “I couldn’t have recognized a song she’d never played for me.
But I should have asked more questions. I should have wondered why something so complete appeared exactly when I was desperate enough not to question it. I didn’t, and that failure is mine.”
“How do you expect to restore your credibility after profiting from stolen work for weeks?”
“I don’t expect anything. I’m not here to restore my credibility - I’m here to tell the truth and let people decide for themselves. The royalties are being transferred to Senna. The song will carry her name. Beyond that, my reputation is whatever people decide it is.”
“And if the industry doesn’t forgive you?”
“Then I’ll have earned that too.” I meet the reporter’s eyes. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m asking people to stop punishing my wife for my failures.”
“Did Senna approve this press conference?”
I look at her, standing just off to the side where the cameras can see her. She gives me a small nod.
“She approved it. She also reviewed every piece of evidence we’re presenting. This is her story to tell, and she’s choosing to let me help tell it. That’s her decision, not mine.”
“What about Marco Benedetti?” another reporter calls out. “Is the label taking action?”
“That’s not my announcement to make,” I say carefully. “But I understand the label’s board has opened an internal review based on the evidence we’ve provided. Marco’s conduct will be assessed through proper channels.”
The questions keep coming - about the bribery, about the leaked filing, about what happens next. I answer them all, as honestly as I can, taking ownership of every failure that belongs to me while making clear which crimes belong to Fiorella.
By the time it’s over, I’m wrung out. But the truth is finally on the record.
***
Two hours later, it’s over.
The journalists have their story. The evidence has been documented. Fiorella’s carefully constructed narrative has crumbled into dust.
“How do you feel?” Senna asks as we leave the building together, her hand in mine.
“Exhausted. Relieved. Terrified.”
“Terrified of what?”
“That this won’t be enough. That people won’t believe it. That somehow, Fiorella will find a way to spin this into something else.”
“She won’t.” Senna squeezes my hand. “It’s over, Rocco. The video, the evidence, the press conference - there’s nothing left for her to spin.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am.” She stops walking and turns to face me. “You did good today. Better than good. You stood up in front of the entire world and told the truth, even the parts that made you look bad.”
“It was the least I could do.”
“It was more than anyone expected. More than I expected.” She rises on her toes and kisses me softly. “Thank you.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I check it and see a notification from the industry news site.
brEAKING: Fiorella Caswell dropped by management following plagiarism allegations. Label cuts all ties. Marco Benedetti placed on administrative leave pending internal review.
“It’s starting,” I say, showing her the screen.
She reads it, her expression shifting through something I can’t quite name.
“Good,” she says finally. “She earned this.”
We walk out into the Florence afternoon, and somewhere across the city, my sister-in-law’s empire is crumbling.
It’s not quite revenge.
But it’s close enough.
We find a bench in a small piazza away from the cameras, and Senna leans against my shoulder while pigeons argue over crumbs near our feet.
“You know what I keep thinking about?” she says.
“The press conference?”
“The part where you said you should have recognized my voice in those lyrics.” She tilts her head to look at me. “That was either the most romantic thing you’ve ever said, or the saddest.”
“Can’t it be both?”
“I suppose it can.” She’s quiet for a moment. “You sang my song about being invisible to a room full of industry people. At the showcase. Without knowing it was mine.”
“I know.”
“That’s not an accusation. It’s just-” She laughs softly. “It’s kind of poetic, in a terrible way.”
“The universe has a dark sense of humor.”
“Apparently.” She takes my hand. “But you heard me today. In front of all those cameras. You made sure everyone heard me.”
“I should have done it years ago.”
“You did it now. That’s what matters.”
I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles, right there in the piazza, where anyone could see.
“I love you,” I say.
“I know.” She smiles. “I love you too. Even when you’re being poetic about your failures.”
“Especially then?”
“Don’t get cocky.” But she’s smiling, and her thumb traces a small circle on the back of my hand. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”
“I prefer ‘classically handsome.’”
“I prefer ‘tolerable in good lighting.’”