At 5:45 AM, as the first rays of dawn crept up the stone spire of San Gimignano, the scent of fresh coffee and baking dough already floated from the kitchen of the Costa Bakery.
Elisa woke not to an alarm, but to the steady, rhythmic *thump, thump* of dough being kneaded on a wooden countertop downstairs, mingled with the faint hiss of a copper kettle on the stove. She opened her eyes. The unfamiliar ceiling was becoming familiar in the morning light. Beside her, Lorenzo still slept, breathing evenly, one hand resting on his forehead, half-covering his face.
She slipped quietly downstairs. In the kitchen, Maria stood with her back to the door, sifting flour, while Gianluigi arranged shaped focaccia dough on baking sheets. The morning light, filtering through the shutters, gilded their graying hair and aprons with a warm edge.
"Buongiorno," Elisa said softly.
Maria jumped, the sieve nearly falling into the flour bowl. "Dio mio! You're up so early? Did Lorenzo wake you?"
"No," Elisa walked into the kitchen, the warm, comforting scents of flour and yeast bringing an unexpected peace. "I'm used to early mornings."
Maria immediately set her things down, wiped her hands on her apron, and hurried over to grasp Elisa's wrist. "Your hands are so cold! The morning's chilly, why didn't you grab a jacket!"
Without waiting for an answer, she steered Elisa to the most comfortable chair in the kitchen—its cushion noticeably newly plumped, embroidered with delicate initials "A.R."—and picked up the gleaming copper kettle from the stove.
"I made coffee. A new blend. Try it." Maria poured with the care of one handling sacred water.
Elisa looked at the delicate bone china cup before her—its rim traced with fine gold, incongruous in this simple kitchen. "This cup is too precious…"
"It suits you," Maria stated firmly, sitting opposite, nervously twisting the edge of her apron. "Try it. I added orange oil and a touch of lavender honey."
Elisa took a sip. Warm liquid flowed over her tongue. The brightness of citrus blossomed first, followed by the deep, nutty richness of the coffee beans, finishing with a whisper of lavender sweetness that perfectly balanced the bitterness.
"Well?" Maria watched her, eyes eager as a student awaiting a grade.
"It's wonderful," Elisa praised sincerely. "I've never tasted this combination."
Maria's face instantly broke into a radiant smile, the wrinkles at her eyes smoothing out. "Really? Then I'll make you a different blend every morning! Tomorrow we'll try a bit of rose water and almond milk!"
Elisa set her cup down, looking at the dough proofing on the counter. "Can I help with something? I can learn—"
"Sit!" Maria's hand came down gently but firmly on her shoulder. "Your hands are not for kneading dough."
She gently lifted Elisa's hand. It was pale, slender, nails perfectly manicured, with only a thin layer of callus on the fingertips from years of drawing and handling delicate tools.
"I've seen you work on TV," Maria's voice grew thick. "Tiny gemstones, held with tweezers, your hand steady as a rock. Your hands are for designing jewelry, for creating beauty, for…" she paused, eyes reddening, "…for being cherished. Not for touching flour and cold water."
Elisa was stunned. No one had ever regarded her hands this way. In the Rossi household, ability meant responsibility; 'useful' hands meant bearing more work. This was the first time someone forbade her from labor *because* her hands were 'precious.'
Gianluigi chuckled warmly nearby, placing a steaming-hot, freshly baked focaccia before her. "Your mother's right. Try this. Uses our own rosemary."
Just then—
"MOM!!!! THAT CAR!!!!!"
A teenage shriek, like an air raid siren, exploded from upstairs, followed by thunderous footsteps pounding down the stairs as if they might collapse.
Giulio Costa burst into the kitchen like a cannonball. His hair looked assaulted by a category-ten typhoon, he wore a death metal band T-shirt as pajamas, eyes wide as saucers, staring unblinkingly at Elisa, mouth agape enough to fit an entire focaccia.
"You… you… you…" His trembling finger pointed out the window, then back at Elisa. "That Bentley Mulsanne! I saw it in *Top Gear* magazine! Only three in all of Italy! One belongs to the CEO of Rossi Jewels! So you… you're Elisa Rossi?!"
Maria slammed a hand on the table, making the coffee cups jump. "Giulio! Lower your voice! You'll wake every cat in town!"
"But she's my sister-in-law?!" Giulio's voice shot up eight octaves, brimming with incredulous joy. "Brother really married Elisa Rossi?! The one who shut down that German industrial giant at Davos, who acquired the century-old French jewelry atelier last year, who was on the cover of *TIME* magazine's business section last month?! Elisa Rossi?!"
Dead silence filled the kitchen.
Then, a slow, sleep-heavy voice came from the stairway. "Giulio… what's wrong with you so early… oh."
Sofia Costa stood in the doorway, a mess of dark brown hair cascading over her shoulders, wrapped in an oversized flannel pajama set. She rubbed her eyes blearily, her gaze landing on Elisa, pausing for three seconds.
"My God," she breathed, instantly awake.
Maria covered her face in despair.
Elisa set down her coffee cup. The porcelain made a crisp sound against the wood. She stood up—a simple movement that made Giulio instinctively take half a step back—and gave a slight nod. "Good morning. I'm Elisa."
Sofia recovered first. She hurried over, eyes shining with pure adoration. "You're really… the Elisa Rossi who designed the 'Moonlight' collection? I wrote my art history thesis at the University of Florence analyzing the 'Moonlight' design language! My professor gave me an A+, said my understanding of the 'invisible claw' setting was profound!"
Elisa was surprised. "You studied the invisible claw setting?"
"I did! I drew over forty structural diagrams!" Sofia turned to dash upstairs. "My thesis is in the study, I'll get it—"
"Sofia!" Maria caught her daughter's wrist, planting her firmly in a chair. "Everyone sit! And you, Giulio, close your mouth before flies get in!"
The two young people were forced into chairs, but four pairs of eyes remained glued to Elisa as if magnetized.
Lorenzo arrived then, clearly having taken a quick shower, his hair still damp. Seeing the kitchen scene, he sighed wearily. "Ma, I said not to wake them."
"I didn't call them!" Maria protested. "It's your brother's eyes! Sharper than radar!"
"We could have said the car was rented—" Lorenzo attempted damage control.
"Rented?" Giulio snorted. "Bro, the daily rate for a Bentley Mulsanne could feed you at a fancy restaurant in town for a month! Who comes to this town on vacation and rents *that*? Unless…"
He stopped abruptly, eyes widening further, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "…You're hiding from those reporters? Because of that lying scumbag Carlo Bergamo?"
Silence again.
Elisa looked at this seemingly rebellious, scruffy boy with such sharp intuition. She nodded calmly. "Yes."
Giulio and Sofia exchanged a glance, speaking in unison but with different tones:
"That's so cool!"
"What do you need us to do?"
Maria immediately bristled like a lioness guarding her cubs. "What you need to do is keep absolutely quiet! Be mutes! Be invisible! Understand? Tell no one Elisa is here! No one! Not your best friends, not stray cats, not even in your own sleep-talking!"
"But Marta invited me to the museum in Siena…" Sofia whispered.
"Tell her you have sudden food poisoning! Can't get out of bed!"
"And Luca wants me for the basketball finals this afternoon…" Giulio raised a hand.
"Tell him you fell on your head yesterday! Mild concussion needs rest!"
"And Nonna is bringing her new chili sauce tomorrow…"
"Tell her we suddenly decided on a week-long 'family roots' trip to Sardinia! Just boarded the plane!"
Giulio and Sofia looked at their mother simultaneously, their expressions screaming, "Who would believe that?"
Maria planted her hands on her hips. "I don't care! Even if we say we were abducted by aliens! The point is, Elisa needs peace. That is our family's most important, most secret, most sacred mission right now! Understood?!"
Elisa watched this family. Maria's nervous protectiveness, Giulio and Sofia's rapid shift from shock to excitement to immediate 'covert ops' mode, the resigned yet tender indulgence on Lorenzo's face… All of it softened a hardened corner deep within her.
"Actually," she began softly, all eyes instantly snapping to her, "if people really find out, it's fine. I can handle—"
"We *handling* it is one thing, but those flies buzzing around is another!" Maria interrupted, her eyes reddening again—this time with anger. "Child, you came home to rest, not to keep fighting. Those nasty things, we block them for as long as we can. In this house, all you need is to relax, be taken care of. Don't think about anything else."
Sofia nodded vigorously, grasping Elisa's hand. "Sister, don't worry. We Costas, our mouths might not be the tightest," she shot a glare at Giulio, "but our hearts are united!"
Giulio immediately puffed out his unmuscular chest, rolling up his pajama sleeves. "Yeah! I can be the door guardian! If anyone comes close, I'll… I'll start reciting *The Divine Comedy*! Guaranteed to scare them off!"
"Fix that bird's nest on your head first," Sofia said disdainfully.
Watching this, Lorenzo finally allowed a slight smile. He walked to Elisa's side, resting a hand lightly on the back of her chair—a protective gesture. "Alright. Now that the cat's out of the bag, three rules: First, absolute secrecy. Second, live normally but avoid attention. Third," he looked pointedly at Giulio, "especially you. No hinting words, photos, or locations on any social media. Clear?"
Giulio raised three fingers, solemn. "I swear! From now on, my lips are tighter than a Swiss bank vault!"
Maria eyed him suspiciously. "You better remember what you said today."
As it turned out, asking an eighteen-year-old basketball-loving boy who just discovered he has a 'superstar' sister-in-law to keep a secret was about as likely as the sun rising in the west.
That afternoon, under the old basketball hoop in San Gimignano, the annual "Youth Cup" 3-on-3 tournament was in full swing. Giulio was on fire, moving with godlike grace—crossovers, jump shots, steals—everything flowing. After a spectacular behind-the-back dribble into a fadeaway jumper that swished through the net, the court erupted.
His best friend Luca rushed over, locking him in a headlock. "Giulio! You're on one today?! What did you eat?!"
Giulio panted, sweat dripping from his temples. Extreme excitement and the urge to show off overwhelmed his already shaky floodgates of discretion. He wiped his nose triumphantly and blurted out, loud enough for half the piazza to hear:
"Of course! My sister-in-law is watching from the second floor! Gotta go all out!"
Time seemed to freeze for a second.
The other five players on the court, the seven or eight spectators on the sidelines, even an old lady passing by with a grocery basket—all stopped. Dozens of pairs of eyes *swished* in unison toward the south-facing window on the second floor of the Costa Bakery across the square. Behind the delicate lace curtains, an elegant, slender silhouette sat in an armchair by the window, head bent over a book or tablet.
"Your sister-in-law?" Luca slowly released him, eyes wide as dinner plates. "Lorenzo got married? When? How come we didn't know?"
Giulio's grin froze. Alarm bells screamed in his head. But the words were out.
"I… I mean…" he stammered, face flushing crimson. "My *cousin*-in-law! Yeah, a distant cousin-in-law from Milan! Looks… looks a bit like that one person…"
Protesting too much.
Pietro, the town's self-appointed future detective with the sharpest ears, immediately swam over like a shark scenting blood, pushing up his (non-prescription) glasses. "Ohhh—a cousin-in-law. A cousin-in-law who drives a Bentley Mulsanne to our little town for 'relaxation.' Giulio, your Milan relatives run a hardware store, right? Since when do they drive Bentleys?"
Someone nearby muttered, "I looked that car up online. The price could buy that whole row of shops by the square…"
Cold sweat beaded on Giulio's forehead. "The car… is rented! Yeah, rented to show off!"
Pietro smiled a 'keep digging' smile. "Rent a Bentley Mulsanne to show off in San Gimignano? Your cousin-in-law's idea of 'low-key' is unique. And," he deliberately drew out the words, his gaze drifting back to the second-floor window, "I have 20/20 vision. It's a bit far, but that profile, that aura… really does resemble that 'Jewelry Queen' from the finance magazines."
The crowd began buzzing excitedly. The secret, like ink dropped into clear water, rapidly spread, stained, and became irrecoverable.
When Giulio dragged his leaden feet home, a sense of impending doom in his heart, he found his mother Maria standing at the kitchen door. In her hand was not a ladle, but the thick, solid rolling pin reserved for giant sheets of pasta. His father Gianluigi looked on helplessly, and Sofia shot him a 'you're on your own' look.
"Ma…" Giulio's voice wavered.
Maria didn't speak. She just tapped the rolling pin lightly against her left palm. The *pat-pat* sound was particularly ominous in the silent kitchen.
"Giulio Costa," Maria began, her voice terrifyingly calm, each word like a tiny hailstone, "how did you swear to me this morning? 'Tighter than a Swiss bank vault'? Hmm?"
Giulio hunched his shoulders.
"If Swiss banks had vaults like you, the world's rich would be bankrupt and jumping off buildings!" Maria's pitch suddenly rose, the rolling pin pointing out the window. "Now look! I've gotten three calls already! Clara from the fruit shop asked if we need special fruit for our 'distinguished guest'! Giovanna from the butcher's saved the best veal for us! Even Antonio the church cleaner 'passed by' to ask if we had relatives from Milan! Explain that!"
"I just accidentally said 'sister-in-law is watching'…" Giulio mumbled.
"'Accidentally'?!" Maria brandished the rolling pin, spinning in place with anger. "Why don't you 'accidentally' go shout it from the town hall roof with a megaphone?! Why don't you 'accidentally' email all the newspapers?! 'My sister-in-law Elisa Rossi is here, come and see'?! What a considerate little brother, making sure your sister-in-law doesn't get too much peace and quiet, right?!"
The rolling pin *thumped* heavily against the counter edge, making Giulio jump.
"From today! No allowance! No basketball! Dinner is bread and water! Until you prove with actions that your mouth can do something useful besides eating!" Maria delivered the verdict, then rubbed her temples wearily. "Now, get out to the backyard and peel potatoes! A whole sack, or don't come back in!"
Giulio, head hung low like a defeated rooster, slunk off to the backyard.
When Elisa came downstairs, this was the scene she found. She felt a mix of exasperation and an urge to laugh. "Ma, really, it's okay. I don't mind…"
"*I* mind!" Maria turned, eyes red again—this time with fury. "This boy needs discipline! Can't even keep an important secret, how will he ever manage anything!" She took Elisa's hand, her voice softening. "Don't worry. Small towns have their advantages. People here… they look out for their own."
Maria's prediction soon came true.
In the days following the exposure of the secret, San Gimignano displayed astonishing unity and… creativity.
First, an 'official version' of the "Costa family's Milan relative" story spread through the town's teahouses, bars, and markets with remarkable speed and uniformity: The daughter of Gianluigi's cousin who married into Milan (the relation had to be suitably distant) came to the countryside to her uncle's house to heal from a broken heart. The girl was reclusive, shy, disliked meeting people. The luxury car was her father's guilt-ridden compensation. Everyone should be understanding, caring, and protective of her privacy.
Any unfamiliar face asking questions received highly consistent, richly detailed, yet mutually contradictory misinformation from the townsfolk:
"The girl? Quite pitiable. Seems her fiancé in Milan cheated on her."
"No, no, I heard it was work stress, a nervous breakdown."
"What car? Just a normal Fiat, I think? Didn't notice."
"I think she's leaving tomorrow? Or next week?"
Even Tony, the town's famously loose-lipped barber, would wink mysteriously at his regulars: "Some things, we locals know and keep to ourselves. Not good for the girl to spread it around."
And the Costa Bakery became the new social hub for the town's women—under the guise of 'buying bread,' 'bringing some homegrown vegetables,' or 'asking Maria for a recipe.'
Elisa was initially at a loss, but soon realized the women's curiosity and affection were direct and simple. Their questions were varied but rarely intrusive.
"Elisa, your skin is like a peeled egg! What cream do you use?" Angela, the florist (who married in from Milan and considered herself worldly), was the first to ask, her fingers almost reaching out to touch Elisa's cheek.
Elisa answered honestly: "Strict sun protection every day, drink enough water, get enough sleep. The cream… just a basic moisturizer."
"That's it?" the women gasped. "Not that 'miracle serum' that costs hundreds of euros a bottle?"
"The most important things in skincare are consistency and suitability, not price," Elisa said gently.
The women exchanged 'note taken' glances.
Next was attire. Livia, the seamstress, squinted at Elisa's seemingly simple, exquisitely tailored cashmere sweater as if appraising art. "This shoulder line… perfection. May I feel the fabric?"
With permission, her fingers lightly brushed the material. "90% cashmere, 10% silk, hand-stitched hem. This… wasn't cheap?"
"It's for work," Elisa explained.
"Worth it!" Livia declared. "Good clothes last ten years without going out of style. Better than ten cheap pieces you wear for a season!"
Then, conversation inevitably turned to jewelry—Elisa's domain. The women would shyly yet eagerly bring out their most treasured pieces: Grandma's wedding band, the pearl necklace their husbands saved up for, a little pendant from their daughter for Mother's Day… Elisa would examine each piece carefully, softly stating its material, approximate age, design features, and offering thoughtful care advice.
"This pearl is a bit dehydrated. Wrap it in a damp cloth overnight; it'll reabsorb moisture and regain luster."
"This prong is a little loose. Best have a trusted jeweler tighten it before the stone falls out."
"Gold can be cleaned with mild soapy water. Never toothpaste."
Her expertise, patience, and sincerity quickly won over every woman in town. Even Angela, who initially harbored a hint of competitiveness, had to admit, "She has no airs at all. Knows so much and is willing to share. I wish my daughter had half her poise."
What captivated them even more was Elisa's demeanor. Her clear enunciation, elegant tone (a blend of standard Tuscan and Milanese refinement), gestures, even the slight forward lean and focused gaze when she listened—all became objects of secret imitation by the town's young ladies.
"She covers her mouth lightly when she smiles, so graceful!" Sofia's friend Marta declared after her third failed attempt. "I can't do it. I slap my thigh when I laugh."
"The way she says 'Grazie' is so lovely," another girl sighed.
Meanwhile, the 'men's camp' was also in action.
Gianluigi walked with a newfound spring in his step these days, his chest puffed out more than ever. At the regular gatherings with his old friends—usually in the backyard under the grapevines or at the local tavern—he was the undisputed center of attention.
"I always said, that Lorenzo, quiet as he is, has sharp eyes!" Salvatore, the butcher, took a swig of homemade wine, clapping Gianluigi on the shoulder.
"Sharp? More like precision-guided!" Pietro, the retired postman, chimed in. "Elisa Rossi! Dio mio, I've subscribed to finance magazines for ten years just for her interviews! That mind, that presence!"
"The key is she's so down-to-earth," Leonardo, the carpenter, said slowly. The olive wood jewelry tray he'd gifted Elisa had received high praise. "Talked to me without a hint of impatience, even asked about my woodworking techniques."
Gianluigi listened to the praise, a smile never leaving his face, every wrinkle radiating pride. He sipped his wine modestly, waving a hand. "Ah, as long as the kids are happy. Elisa, that child, just works too hard, too thin. This visit, her mother will fatten her up properly."
"Absolutely! Absolutely!" the men nodded in unison.
"But," Marco, the gas station owner, lowered his voice, expression serious, "we need to keep the town secure. I told my boy to keep an extra eye on the roads into town these days. Any unfamiliar cars, especially with long lenses, tell me immediately."
"Right," Pietro nodded. "Our town's small, only a few ways in and out. We'll keep each other posted. Strangers ask, we stick to the agreed story."
Gianluigi looked at his old friends, moved. "Thank you, brothers."
"What for?!" Salvatore boomed. "Your daughter-in-law is the town's honor! Protecting honor is everyone's duty!"
Thus, an invisible yet warm net of protection was quietly woven over this Tuscan town. The name Elisa Rossi became the town's open secret, collectively guarded. Here, she spent days of genuine relaxation—sampling Maria's endless stream of lovingly prepared meals, answering the townsfolk's odd yet well-meaning questions, strolling through the olive groves at dusk with Lorenzo, even giving Sofia some brief guidance on her next paper about the connection between Renaissance jewelry and modern design at the girl's earnest request.
She almost forgot the smoke of Milan.
Until the afternoon of the fourth day.
Elisa sat by the second-floor window, remotely handling necessary work on her laptop. The setting sun dyed the square's cobblestones a warm honey-gold. Tourists dwindled, townsfolk began preparing dinner, wisps of chimney smoke rising.
Just then, a car utterly out of place in the small town slid silently into a parking space at the edge of the square.
A deep gray Aston Martin DB11. Sleek, elegant lines, yet brimming with latent power. It sat there like a beautifully proportioned predator that had descended quietly, starkly contrasting with the old Fiats and motorcycles around it.
The door opened. A polished black Oxford shoe stepped onto the ancient cobblestones. Then, a man emerged from the driver's seat.
He was tall, wearing an impeccably tailored dark casual suit, no tie, the top two buttons of his shirt casually undone revealing a glimpse of collarbone. The suit fabric had a high-quality matte sheen in the evening light. His hair was dark brown, impeccably groomed, save for a few unruly strands at the forehead that added a touch of careless charm.
The man stood, closed the car door with a calm motion. He looked up, his gaze seemingly sweeping idly across the square—the fountain, benches, café terraces… finally, as if by chance, landing on the sign of the Costa Bakery. It lingered for about two seconds.
Then, he turned slightly, retrieving a pair of sunglasses from the car and putting them on. The lenses hid his eyes, leaving only a sharply defined jawline and a faint, ever-present hint of a curve at his lips. The smile wasn't warm; it was more a habitual mask of control.
He didn't immediately head for the bakery. Instead, he turned and walked with unhurried steps toward a seemingly ancient antique bookstore on the other side of the square. His back was straight, his gait relaxed, carrying an innate air of urban elite detachment and presence that clashed with the leisurely small-town atmosphere.
Elisa's eyes drifted from her laptop screen, mildly drawn by the movement below. She looked at the Aston Martin, her brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. Such a car here was far too conspicuous.
Her gaze followed the man's back until he disappeared into the bookstore. A vague, indescribable sense of familiarity brushed her mind. That build, that walk…
She shook her head. Probably her imagination. Maybe a high-end tourist passing through, or a wealthy visitor to a nearby estate.
Yet, a faint thread of unease, like a stone dropped into still water, sent ripples through her.
Outside, the sun continued to sink, lengthening the shadows of the towers. From the bakery came Maria's cheerful call to prepare dinner, mingled with the low hum of Gianluigi and Lorenzo's conversation, and Giulio's reluctant grumbling as he was put to work.
The town's evening was approaching—warm, noisy, full of life.
And in the quiet antique bookstore across the square, a man in sunglasses stood before a bookshelf, his fingertips brushing the leather cover of an old volume. His gaze, through the shop's street-facing window, locked once more—accurately, distantly—on the softly lit window on the second floor of the bakery.
The curve at his lips seemed to deepen slightly.