23. Rocco
— ? —
Rocco
The statement takes me four hours to write.
I go through a dozen drafts, each one worse than the last, trying to find words that are honest without being self-pitying, accountable without being weak.
Marco calls three times to tell me this is a terrible idea.
My publicist sends a carefully worded email explaining why silence is the better strategy.
I ignore all of them.
Because Senna is right. We’ve been hiding long enough. And the first step in taking back our story is telling the truth about what actually happened.
The final version goes up on my social media at 9 a.m. the morning after we get home:
To my fans and the public-
Over the past few weeks, there’s been a lot of speculation about my marriage and my wife. I need to address it directly.
The problems in my marriage are my fault.
Not Senna’s. Mine. I spent eighteen months so lost in my own creative struggles that I forgot to be a husband.
I neglected the woman I love, shut her out of my life and my work, and made her feel invisible in her own home.
She didn’t leave because she was having an affair.
She left because I gave her no reason to stay.
I’m asking everyone who considers themselves my fan to stop harassing Senna.
Stop sending her hateful messages. Stop believing rumors spread by people who don’t know the truth of our relationship.
If you want to support me, support her. She’s the most talented person I know, and she deserves better than what she’s gotten - from the press, from the public, and from me.
I’m taking a break from music to focus on being the man my wife deserves. I hope you’ll understand.
The response is immediate and overwhelming.
My phone buzzes nonstop with notifications - some supportive, some furious, some demanding more details. I turn it off and go to find Senna.
She’s in the kitchen of our house - my house, technically, while she’s still keeping the rental - because she came over this morning and I’m trying not to read too much into that. She’s making coffee and looking at her own phone with an unreadable expression.
“Did you see it?” I ask.
“I saw it.”
“And?”
She sets down the phone and looks at me. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.”
“It’s going to make things worse for you. People are going to think you’re weak, or that you’re covering for something-”
“I don’t care what people think.” I cross to her and take her hands. “I care about doing the right thing. For once.”
She stares at me for a long moment.
Then she pulls me into a hug so tight I can barely breathe.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my shoulder. “Thank you for finally seeing me.”
“I should have seen you years ago.”
“Yeah. You should have.”
But she doesn’t let go.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are wet, and she’s almost smiling.
“You know what’s annoying?” she says.
“What?”
“You’re actually good at words when you try. All those years of lyrics about sunsets and heartbreak, and it turns out you could have been writing things that mattered.”
“I’ll work on my material.”
“You’d better. I have high standards now.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Also, your statement made me cry, which means I have to redo my makeup, which means I’m billing you for mascara.”
“Worth it.”
“Damn right it is.”
***
That afternoon, I get a call from Delia.
“Mr. Zangari?” Her voice is hesitant, nervous. “I hope you don’t mind me calling. I know you texted me weeks ago about coffee - I’m sorry I never responded. I was scared. But after your statement, I felt like maybe it was safe to reach out.”
“Delia.” I sit up straighter, my heart suddenly pounding. “Is everything okay?”
“I saw your statement. The one about Senna.” She pauses. “I need to tell you something.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve been - I’ve been wanting to say something for weeks, but I was scared. Fiorella pays well, and I need the job, and I didn’t want to get involved in-”
“Delia. Whatever it is, just tell me.”
A long silence. Then:
“She paid him. The label president. Fiorella paid Marco Benedetti to give her the collaborator role. I delivered the envelope myself - she sent me with the cash and instructions about the handoff. Where to meet him, what to say if anyone asked. I still have all of her messages.”
The world goes very still.
“You have proof?”
“I have the text messages. I have the date and time of the handoff. I was there, Mr. Zangari. I’m the one who handed him the envelope.”
“Can you send them to me? The messages?”
“I already did. Check your email.”
I pull up my inbox with shaking hands. There it is - a forwarded thread of text messages from Fiorella to Delia, explicit instructions about delivering payment to Marco Benedetti in exchange for securing the muse position on my project.
Make sure he counts it before you leave. I don’t want any misunderstandings about what this buys.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because what she’s doing to Senna isn’t right. I was there when Fiorella visited the studio that day. I saw the way she looked at Senna’s things. And then the divorce filing leaked, and I knew-” Delia’s voice cracks. “I couldn’t stay quiet anymore. Not after your statement.”
“Thank you, Delia. I mean that.”
“Please don’t tell her it was me. At least not until-”
“I won’t. I promise.”
I hang up and immediately call Senna into the room.
“Look at this,” I say, showing her the screen.
She reads through the messages, her face going pale.
“She bribed her way in,” Senna says slowly. “The whole collaboration - the whole ‘muse’ thing - she bought it.”
“It wasn’t about her talent. It was never about her talent.”
“It was about getting close to you. And to me.” Senna looks up at me. “What do we do with this?”
“Not yet. We need more. This proves the bribery, but it doesn’t prove the song theft. And it doesn’t connect her to the leak.”
“So we wait?”
“We gather. And then we strike.”
***
The second piece falls into place the next day.
Lucia, the reporter from the showcase - the one who was standing next to Senna the night everything fell apart - calls me directly.
“I have something you need to see,” she says.
We meet at a café near the Ponte Vecchio, and she slides her phone across the table.
“Fiorella pitched me a story,” Lucia explains. “A few weeks ago, right before the leak. She sent me this.”
On the screen is an email from Fiorella, complete with attachments. I scroll through it, my stomach dropping with each new detail.
The marriage has been failing for months. Sources close to the couple confirm that Senna has been seeing someone else - a young singer named Matteo. Attached are photos and a document that proves the timeline.
And there, in the attachments, is the divorce filing. The same document that appeared in all the press coverage. The pages are photographed at an odd angle, folded in a distinctive way that looks exactly like someone snapped a picture in a hurry.
“This is the same image that was in all the articles,” I say.
“I know. I recognized the fold pattern. She’s the source, Mr. Zangari. Fiorella is the one who leaked the filing.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Lucia meets my eyes. “Because I was at the showcase. I was standing right next to Senna when she realized what was happening to her. I saw her face.” She pauses. “I’m a journalist. I’m supposed to chase the story. But some stories don’t deserve to be told the way Fiorella wants them told.”
“Can I have this?”
“I’ll forward you everything. The original email, the attachments, all of it.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Fiorella has a lot of friends in this industry. Taking her down isn’t going to be easy.”
“I know.” I stand up, tucking my phone into my pocket. “But we’re going to do it anyway.”
***
That evening, I show Senna everything - Delia’s messages, Lucia’s email, the web of evidence slowly forming around her sister.
“This is enough,” she says quietly. “This is enough to destroy her.”
“Almost. We still need the notebook. The actual physical proof that she stole your songs.”
“Where would it be?”
“I don’t know. But I have a theory.” I take her hand. “The gala is tomorrow. Fiorella will be there.”
“You want to confront her?”
“I want to give her a chance to expose herself. In front of everyone.”
Senna is quiet for a long moment, staring at the evidence spread across our kitchen table.
“She’s been so quiet,” she says finally. “Have you noticed? Ever since your statement, she hasn’t done any interviews. Hasn’t posted anything. It’s like she’s-”
“Reloading,” I finish.
“What?”
“She’s not retreating. She’s preparing for something.” I meet Senna’s eyes. “We need to be ready for whatever it is.”
“We will be.”
“Together?”
She squeezes my hand.
“Together.”
***
Later that evening, my phone buzzes with a text from Delia.
Delia: I’ve thought about it. You can use my name. You can share the messages. I found a new position, and a lawyer friend reviewed everything.
Delia: Fiorella shouldn’t get away with this. Not after what she did to Senna.
I show the message to Senna, who reads it twice before looking up at me.
“She’s sure?”
“She says she is.”
“Then we have everything we need.”
“Almost everything. We still need the notebook.”
“One piece at a time,” Senna says. “We’ll get there.”