7. Senna
— ? —
Senna
The venue is packed by the time I make it through the side entrance.
My name is on the guest list - of course it is, I’m Rocco Zangari’s wife, even if my husband never actually asked me to come - and once security checks it, I edge along the wall looking for a spot where I can see the stage without being trampled by the industry crowd surging toward the front.
“Excuse me - sorry - just trying to-” I squeeze past a woman in designer heels who looks at me like I’ve personally offended her ancestors. “Thanks. Sorry.”
I find a pocket of space near one of the pillars, close enough to see but far enough back that no one will notice me unless they’re specifically looking.
Which they won’t be. Tonight isn’t about me.
Tonight is about Rocco, about the comeback single, about the resurrection of a career that’s been flatlined for eighteen months while I stood helplessly by.
I shouldn’t have come.
The thought surfaces and I push it back down, because I’m here now, I made the choice, and leaving before it even starts feels like admitting something I’m not ready to admit.
Maybe this will be different. Maybe seeing him up there, doing the thing he loves, will remind me why I fell in love with him in the first place.
Maybe he’ll look out into the crowd and find my face and remember that we used to be partners before we became whatever we are now.
“Is this your first time at one of these?” The voice comes from my left - a young woman with a press badge, notebook in hand, looking at me with professional curiosity.
“No. I’ve been to a few.”
“Industry?”
“Something like that.”
She nods, apparently satisfied with the non-answer, and turns back toward the stage. “I’ve heard the single is incredible. Everyone’s saying this is going to be his best work yet.”
“That’s what everyone’s saying,” I agree.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
I look at her - really look, taking in the eager expression, the pen poised over the notebook, the particular hunger of someone who thinks they might be witnessing something important. “I haven’t heard it yet,” I say. “So I’m reserving judgment.”
“Fair enough.” She grins. “I’m Lucia, by the way. Music press.”
“Senna.”
“Nice to meet you, Senna. Are you here alone?”
The question hits harder than it should. “Yeah,” I say. “Just me.”
“Well, stick close. The acoustics are better on this side anyway.” She flips to a fresh page in her notebook. “So what’s your connection? Label? Management? Or just a devoted fan who scored an invite?”
“Something like that.”
“You’re very mysterious.” She grins, clearly enjoying herself. “I like it. Most people at these things can’t wait to tell you exactly how important they are.”
“Maybe I’m not important.”
“Nobody unimportant gets into an industry-only showcase. Trust me, I’ve tried to sneak friends in before. Security at these things is tighter than the Vatican.”
I almost smile at that. Almost. “I have a personal connection.”
“To Zangari?” Her eyes sharpen with professional interest. “How personal are we talking?”
“Personal enough that I’d rather not be quoted.”
“Fair enough. Off the record, then.” She makes a show of closing her notebook, though I notice she doesn’t put down her pen.
“I’m just curious. The man disappears for eighteen months, everyone assumes his career is over, and then suddenly he’s back with this supposedly career-defining single. There’s got to be a story there.”
“There usually is.”
“You sound like you know what it is.”
“I sound like someone who’s been to enough of these events to know that the public story and the real story are rarely the same thing.”
Lucia studies me for a moment, and I can see her recalculating, trying to figure out what box to put me in. Industry wife? Former colleague? Disgruntled ex?
“You know,” she says slowly, “I’ve been covering Zangari’s career for three years now. Saw him at his peak, saw him go dark. And the one thing I never could figure out was his wife.”
My stomach tightens. “What about her?”
“She’s a ghost. Never gives interviews, barely appears in photos, doesn’t seem to exist outside of being ‘Rocco Zangari’s wife.’ I’ve always wondered-” She stops herself. “Sorry. That’s probably rude. You didn’t come here to listen to me speculate about someone’s marriage.”
“No,” I say carefully. “I didn’t.”
“It’s just interesting, that’s all. A man that talented, that successful, and the person closest to him is completely invisible. Makes you wonder if that’s by choice or by design.”
I could tell her. I could say, I’m the ghost you’re wondering about, and the invisibility wasn’t a choice I made so much as one that was made for me. I could tell her that I used to write music too, before I became someone’s supporting character. I could tell her a lot of things.
Instead, I say, “Maybe she likes her privacy.”
“Maybe.” Lucia doesn’t look convinced. “Or maybe there’s more to the story than anyone knows.”
“There usually is,” I say again, and this time I’m the one who looks away first.
The lights dim before she can respond, and a hush falls over the crowd as the host walks onto the stage - a sleek woman in a red dress who I recognize vaguely from industry events, the kind of person who knows everyone and owes favors to half of them.
“Good evening, everyone.” Her voice fills the room, warm and practiced.
“Thank you for joining us tonight for what I can only describe as one of the most anticipated musical events of the year. When Rocco Zangari went quiet eighteen months ago, many of us wondered if we’d ever hear new music from him again. Tonight, we get our answer.”
Applause ripples through the crowd. I stay still, hands at my sides, watching.
“But before we get to the main event, I want to take a moment to acknowledge the team that made this comeback possible. The label, of course, who never lost faith-” More applause.
“-and a very special collaborator who helped unlock something we’d all been waiting for.
Please welcome to the stage, Rocco Zangari! ”
The applause becomes a roar.
And then there he is.
Rocco walks out under the lights in a dark suit I don’t recognize, his hair styled, his smile electric, looking more like himself than he has in eighteen months.
He waves to the crowd, settles onto the piano bench, adjusts the microphone - all the small rituals I’ve watched him do a thousand times, all the gestures that used to be as familiar as my own breathing.
“Thank you,” he says into the mic, and even his voice sounds different. Alive. “Thank you all for being here. This night means more to me than I can say.”
Beside me, Lucia is scribbling furiously in her notebook. I can see the words comeback and emotional and triumphant appearing in her shorthand.
“I want to start with something familiar,” Rocco continues, settling onto the piano bench.
“A song from before the silence. Before I forgot how to do this.” He plays the opening chord of “November Light” - his second album’s biggest hit, the one he wrote about the early days of our marriage. “Just to prove the voice still works.”
The crowd laughs softly, charmed.
I think about all the nights I spent in that dark with him. All the times I reached for him and found nothing. All the ways I tried to be his light and failed.
He starts to play, and the melody is beautiful - haunting and hopeful at the same time, the kind of song that makes you ache without knowing exactly why.
His voice fills the room, and I stand frozen at my pillar, watching the man I married come back to life in front of an audience of strangers who have no idea what it cost us to get here.
The song ends. The applause is thunderous.
“That was incredible,” Lucia breathes beside me. “God, that was - did you feel that?”
I felt something. I’m not sure incredible is the word I’d use.
Rocco stands from the piano, accepting the applause with the practiced humility of someone who knows exactly how good he is. The host returns to the stage, and I think that’s it, that’s the showcase, time to slip out before anyone notices me-
“And now,” the host says, “for a very special surprise. Rocco, would you indulge us with one more? Something spontaneous, something that shows our guests the magic of how this music came to be?”
Rocco laughs, surprised but pleased. “I wasn’t prepared for-”
“Come on.” The host is grinning. “Give us a taste of the collaboration. Show us how it worked.”
He looks out at the crowd, and for a second I think his eyes might find mine - but no, he’s looking past me, toward the wings of the stage, where a familiar figure is waiting.
“Alright,” he says. “Why not.”
He sits back down at the piano.
And Fiorella steps out of the wings and takes the microphone beside him.
The crowd murmurs with interest - Lucia is scribbling again, something about surprise duet and chemistry - and I watch my sister position herself at my husband’s side, her hand brushing his shoulder as she adjusts her mic stand, her smile wide and warm and directed entirely at him.
“Ready when you are,” Fiorella says.
Rocco grins up at her.
“Let’s show them what we’ve got.”