Page 6 of The Don's Prima Donna

As soon as we are settled, Sarah launches into mindless chatter, prattling on about the quality and comfort of seating on her flight here, her day at the spa, and the new Hermes bag she purchased, especially color-coded to her outfit for her father’s celebratory event at SkyAir.

I offer the occasional "hmm" in response, staring out the window as the city lights stream past.

"So tell me, Philippe," she asks, finally giving me a chance to speak. "I hear you're learning the ropes in a lot of your family’s businesses."

"I am," I answer briefly.

"What kind?" she fake pouts her lips and twirls her hair around a finger.

"Well, various: transportation, arms, construction," I name a few.

"And do you believe in investments?"

"Of course," I almost roll my eyes.

"Well then, you absolutely must buy me a Birkin. A Birkin is an investment, you know!"

"A... Birkin?" I repeat, hoping I misheard.

"Yes. Do you know the bag? They're very hard to come by. I've got 20 already, and Daddy says he's done buying me more, but I've got my eyes on a new number. At just under a million, it’s such a steal."

"Right," I say sardonically, my voice coming flat. She continues describing the imbecilic bag to me.

My driver meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, a glint of sympathy in his gaze. I feel a rush of camaraderie with him, two working men just trying to get through this endless night.

Sarah continues her pointless monologue, oblivious to my disinterest. She complains about the temperature in the car, the traffic, and the poor selection at the restaurant where we are booked for dinner after the opera. All delivered in a grating, nasal tone that sets my teeth on edge.

At one point, she berates the driver for taking a turn too quickly, jostling her in her seat. I observe his white-knuckled grip on the wheel and the tension in his jaw as he apologizes.

I want to tell her to stop, to leave the poor man in peace. But I hold my tongue. My father would not approve of me defending the help, especially not to a guest who is the only daughter of a billionaire mogul. Not even if said daughter displays such boorish behavior.

So I stare out into the night, counting the minutes until I can finally escape into music and solitude.

At last, the car pulls up in front of the grand facade of the Met Philadelphia, the bright lights of the marquee spilling across the sidewalk.

As I stand before the grand edifice of the Metropolitan Opera House, my heart soars like a captive bird released into the open sky. The very essence of this architectural masterpiece seems to embrace the romantic spirit, and I can't help but be enchanted.

The Met Philadelphia is a resplendent vision tonight, a timeless jewel in the heart of the city. Its exterior, adorned with intricate details and classical elegance, glistens like a beacon of artistry and culture. The warm, honeyed glow of its façade under the gentle moonlight beckons me closer to whisper its secrets of a bygone era.

I step out onto the red carpet, immediately accosted by shouts and camera flashes. The local tycoons and their glittering wives descend, hands outstretched, calling my name. I force a smile, shaking hands and posing for photos.

My mafiosi are scattered throughout the lobby, twenty of them moving as I do, each disguised as a guest.

Sarah clings to my arm, beaming and waving, clearly in her element among the superficial glitz. I try not to recoil from her claw-like grip.

Tonight, I hear through the grapevine that a new artist is performing on these hallowed grounds for the first time. The unknown woman will interpret the lead female role of Norma. Speculation turns to whether opera will survive the general decline of support for the arts.

After what feels like an eternity, we make it inside. The lounge glitters with crystal chandeliers and gilded molding. Thousands of lights flicker in candelabras. Expansive archways, covered with silk and velvet, call to those seeking some privacy.

Men in tuxedos and women dripping in diamonds and furs mill about, throwing air kisses and making banal small talk.

My skin crawls at the insanity of it all. I long to escape to my private balcony, high above the drone, where soon the music will transport me away from this tedium.

The bell chimes, a signal for the patrons to start filtering to their seats.

I take Sarah by the arm and guide her to ascend to my haven. As the lights dim, the restless crowd quiets. I glance around the opera house one more time, making sure all my men are in position. Behind me, my bodyguard, Alessandro, nods discreetly and stands at attention.

Just then, my favorite part of the evening begins. The lights go dim. Sarah tries to say something, but I motion for her to stay silent. The performer must not be disrespected by our voices when she's about to grace us with hers.

---