Music Note: If you like a soundtrack with your reading, go to YouTube and search for "Jussi Bjorling - Nessun Dorma (1944)" to find the music playing behind this scene.


William Cross arrived at the opera house fashionably late. His tuxedo was perfectly tailored to his muscular frame, and his shirt was bright and spotless, black sapphire studs and cufflinks lending a subtle flash to the formal ensemble. Dark hair, touched by gray at the temples, gave the forty-something man a distinguished look. The only thing that might have made him stand out from the other guests was the black eyepatch that angled across his ruggedly handsome face. Of course, the cybernetic implant it concealed would have attracted far more attention, so it was a matter of degrees. The icy gray-blue of his undamaged right eye scanned the nearly empty foyer, then glanced up at the chandelier centered in the ceiling's mural. It was a shame, but sacrifices must be made.

Even before he reached the stairs, Cross could hear Puccini's Nessun Dorma emanating from the auditorium. His cybernetically enhanced left ear detected frequencies outside the standard twenty to twenty-thousand hertz that most human ears could hear, as well as finer variations within that range, which mean he could enjoy a wider array of harmonies and tones when he listened to music. Cross appreciated the intricacies and effects of sound, both for pleasure and other purposes. The singer was decidedly talented, his rich tenor full of passion and strength as he sang the Italian lyrics. Even non-opera aficionados would easily recognize the ubiquitous piece. It had used often in cinema and sports, and it had also been the signature performance of the late Luciano Pavarotti. However, he suspected few would know the origin or meaning of the aria.

"Vanish, O night! Set, stars! Set, stars! At dawn, I will win! I will win! I will win!"

Yes, the earnest Prince Calaf would win for himself the heart of the beautiful but cold Princess Turandot, the Principessa di Morte, but to what end? Cross had always imagined that when the novelty of her determined suitor's ardent kisses wore off, she would kill him anyway; no happily ever after.

The applause was thunderous, tickling his ear as it vibrated the very beams and walls. Smiling, he ascended the stairs and stepped into the dark auditorium, eager to see the next performer. He had been waiting for this moment for a long time, planning for it with meticulous attention to detail. The young Hungarian coloratura soprano who was taking the stage did not know he had entered her apartment last night, did not know about the miniscule transmitter of his own design that he had injected into her throat, where it nestled against her vocal chords. She might have noticed a small red mark, like an insect bite. She might even have wondered how such a thing could happen in winter and worried that it would mar her appearance, but no doubt her mind had been too focused on her performance this evening to dwell upon the question. Der Hölle Rache was widely acknowledged as one of the most difficult pieces in the operatic genre, so this was a fantastic opportunity for her. The human mind was a powerful thing, but at the same time so very, very vulnerable and malleable to someone who knew how to offer the correct suggestion... like the little whisper he'd put in a certain prince's ear that he might have some nuclear material to sell.


"I'm coming inside," Hawkeye announced, working his way along an indirect path through the shadows to the roof door. He'd seen the late arrival, one of several, but there'd been no reason to mark any one of them as special. His change of position was simply part of the plan, since there had been nobody conveniently wearing an "ask me about my enriched uranium" sign, or even anyone who seemed overtly likely. It was never that easy, was it? They'd have to wait until contact was made with the mark.

Widow lifted one hand and, with her fingertips, brushed the elaborate jeweled choker circling her neck. It was a casual-looking gesture, like a woman who was simply reassuring herself of her appearance. She gave the medallion centered over her throat two soft taps with her index finger to acknowledge her partner's statement, then let her fingertips trail lightly down her chest to run along the low-cut neckline of her evening dress. That ought to suitably divert anyone whose attention had been drawn to her movement, she thought.

Tony Stark and Pepper Potts were sitting several rows in front of them. When the couple had come down the aisle she'd met Pepper's gaze for several seconds, her look clearly asking for discretion. The two women had worked together while she'd been working undercover at Stark Industries. At the time, Pepper hadn't knowing who she really was. The aftermath of the near-catastrophic battle with Ivan Vanko at the Stark Expo, along with some smoothing-over words from Phil Coulson, had convinced the level-headed Ms. Potts of the necessity for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s actions. Stark was lucky to have her as an ally. Tonight, the other woman had broken their look and turned away with no further acknowledgement; Widow took that action as agreement to her request. If her cover was blown, it wouldn't be by Stark's right-hand woman.