The morning in San Gimignano was breached by a discordant note.
When the deep gray Aston Martin DB11 slid into the piazza like a silent predator, old Antonio, sweeping in front of the bakery, was the first to look up. He squinted his failing eyes at the man emerging from the driver's seat—the impeccably tailored dark casual suit, polished Oxfords, and a face whose handsomeness and air of detachment couldn't be fully hidden by sunglasses.
"He's not from here," Antonio muttered, his broom carving more forceful arcs on the ground.
The man removed his sunglasses, revealing pale, ice-blue eyes. His gaze swept idly across the piazza—past pigeons playing by the fountain, the café tables and chairs just being set out, finally landing on the "Costa Bakery" sign.
He walked towards the bakery.
Each step was measured, unhurried, the crisp, even tap of his leather soles on the ancient cobblestones clashing with the town's lazy morning vibe. A few early-rising townsfolk peeked from behind windows, exchanging wary glances.
The bakery doorbell rang—not the cheerful tinkle of business hours, but the heavy, dull sound of the door being pushed open.
In the kitchen, Maria was teaching Elisa to discern the subtle differences between olive oils from different regions. At the bell, she glanced instinctively at the clock. "Strange, not open yet—"
Her words cut off as a figure appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Alessandro Visconti stood there, his ice-blue eyes finding Elisa first, pausing for half a second, then shifting to Maria with a flawlessly impeccable smile. "Scusate il disturbo. Is this the Costa residence?"
His Italian was standard upper-class Tuscan, but every syllable was meticulously polished, smooth as gemstones.
The kitchen fell silent.
Gianluigi set down his baking sheet, his thick arms instinctively moving slightly in front of Elisa—though she sat at the innermost spot. Sofia stopped stirring batter. Giulio poked his head in from the back door, his expression like that of a dog guarding its turf.
Maria wiped her hands and stepped forward, her body angled slightly, forming a protective barrier. "This is the Costa home. What can I do for you?"
Alessandro seemed oblivious to the tension. His gaze slid back to Elisa, lingering longer this time, the curve of his lips deepening. "I've come to see Elisa. There are matters we need to discuss."
"She's not here," Maria said, quick and hard, like throwing a stone.
Alessandro raised an eyebrow—a minute gesture, yet dripping with skepticism. His gaze passed over Maria, meeting Elisa's directly.
Elisa set down the small spoon. Olive oil gleamed gold in the ceramic dish. She stood, her movements steady, but Lorenzo noticed the slight clenching of her hand under the table—her tell when tense.
"It's alright, Maria," Elisa said softly, then looked at the man in the doorway. "Alessandro. How did you find this place?"
The name was a pebble dropped into still water.
"Visconti?" Giulio gasped from the back door. "*That* banker's son?"
Alessandro gave an elegant nod, as if at a salon gathering. "Elisa. I'm glad to see you safe. May I speak with you privately? About Carlo Bergamo—I have some information you might find interesting."
The air in the kitchen nearly solidified. Maria's hand pressed against the counter edge, knuckles whitening. Gianluigi shifted half a step forward, a silent but solid wall. Sofia gripped her whisk tightly. Giulio fully squeezed into the kitchen, crossing his arms, his face screaming 'unwelcome.'
Elisa's gaze swept over these faces, each etched with protectiveness, a complex warmth flooding her. She took a soft breath, her voice clear and calm. "We can talk here. They're my family."
She said the word "family" with utter naturalness.
Something flickered in Alessandro's eyes—too fast to catch. But the smile at his lips seemed to stiffen for an instant.
"As you wish." He entered the kitchen and took a seat in the chair opposite Elisa. The ordinary wooden chair seemed cramped under him, yet he sat ramrod straight as if on a throne.
Lorenzo came up from the basement then, carrying a sack of flour. Seeing the scene, he paused in the doorway, his eyes meeting Alessandro's.
The two men's gazes held for three seconds.
Alessandro looked away first, back to Elisa, his voice softening slightly. "I know you don't want to be disturbed, Elisa. But I had to come. Carlo Bergamo has backing—it's not as simple as you think."
"I know," Elisa's voice was flat.
"You know?" Alessandro seemed surprised.
"Business rivalry is never as simple as it appears." Elisa picked up a napkin, meticulously wiping her fingertips. "But thank you for your concern, Alessandro. I can handle it myself."
Alessandro leaned forward, elbows on his knees—a posture meant to seem intimate, but here, in this hostile kitchen, it only felt intrusive. "Let me help. Visconti Bank's influence, plus my personal resources, can resolve this completely within a week. Carlo will issue a public apology, all negative coverage will vanish, Rossi Group's stock will rebound—"
"At what cost?" Elisa interrupted, looking up. Her usually cool, controlled eyes now held a sharp light. "What does Visconti Bank want? Shares in Rossi Group? A board seat? Or something else?"
Alessandro smiled, a hint of wryness and something like acknowledgment of being seen through in that smile. "Always like this, Elisa. Seeing everything as a transaction."
"Because everything *is* a transaction," Elisa said softly, yet each word was sharp as a blade. "Especially with you, Alessandro. You never do anything without a return."
The kitchen was so quiet the bubbling of the stew pot on the stove could be heard.
Alessandro's gaze slowly swept the room—wary Maria, silent but tense Gianluigi, openly hostile Giulio and Sofia, and Lorenzo standing in the doorway, expressionless but eyes sharp.
Finally, his eyes returned to Elisa. This time, he looked for a long while.
Then he suddenly laughed—not the previous perfect social smile, but a more genuine one tinged with bitterness and insight. "I see."
"See what?" Elisa asked.
Alessandro stood, straightening his already impeccable suit cuffs. His movements were slow, as if stalling, or making a difficult decision.
"You've changed, Elisa." His voice was soft, almost to himself. "The old you wouldn't hide in a place like this. The old you would face the storm head-on, cleave through it with the sharpest edge. But now…" his gaze drifted almost imperceptibly toward Lorenzo, "…now you have something you want to protect. Or rather, someone has made you feel worth protecting."
Elisa's fingers tightened under the table.
"That's dangerous," Alessandro continued, his voice still soft but each word like an ice pick. "In business, a soft spot is a weakness. And your weakness is now too obvious."
Lorenzo took a step forward, his voice steady but firm. "The Costas are not anyone's weakness, Signor Visconti."
Alessandro turned to him, ice-blue eyes like frozen lakes. "Really? Do you think those reporters, if they find this place, will be content with just a few photos? Do you think the people behind Carlo will pass up this perfect opportunity to strike at Elisa?" He paused, his voice dropping lower. "You have no idea what you're up against."
Maria suddenly spoke, her voice like tempered steel. "What we know is that this family protects its own. By any means necessary."
Gianluigi didn't speak, just moved silently to stand beside his wife. Sofia and Giulio closed ranks. Five people, a wordless but solid barrier between Elisa and Alessandro.
Alessandro looked at this scene, and finally, a crack appeared in his expression. Within that crack was something—perhaps anger, perhaps frustration, perhaps something deeper and more complex.
"Very well," he finally said, his voice regaining its icy calm. "If that is your choice, Elisa. But I advise you not to stay here long. The eye of the storm is moving toward Tuscany—on my way here, I already saw media vans heading this direction."
He walked to the door, pausing on the threshold without turning back. "If you need help… you know how to reach me."
The door closed behind him. The low, restrained growl of the Aston Martin's engine soon faded down the street.
No one spoke in the kitchen for a long time.
Finally, Giulio broke the silence. "What an arrogant bastard."
"But he has a point," Elisa said softly, looking out the window at the brightening sky. "I can't hide here forever."
"Of course you can!" Maria immediately retorted, grabbing her hand. "This is your home! Stay as long as you want!"
Elisa clasped Maria's rough, warm hand, shaking her head. "No, Maria. Running won't solve this. Carlo Bergamo is attacking my company, my employees, the brand I built. Hiding in San Gimignano, leaving those who trust me to face it alone—that's not who I am."
She stood, her gaze sweeping over each face, finally settling on Lorenzo. "I need to go to the factory. The original production records, quality inspection reports, all the documents that prove our innocence are there. Carlo's so-called 'evidence' must have flaws. I need to find them myself."
"It's too dangerous!" Sofia gasped. "Those reporters are surely camped out near the factory!"
"Perhaps," Elisa admitted. "But this is my fight. I can't drag the Costas into—"
"You already have," Lorenzo calmly interrupted. He walked to her, looking directly into her eyes. "From the moment you walked into this house, you became part of the Costa family."
Maria nodded vigorously, tears welling in her eyes. "Lorenzo is right. You need to go to the factory? Fine. But you're not going alone."
"I'll drive!" Giulio volunteered. "I know a back road, bypasses the main highway. Reporters will never spot us!"
"I can pack some food," Sofia said. "Long drive needs energy."
Gianluigi silently walked to the storeroom. Minutes later, he returned with an old canvas bag, placing it on the table. "My old hunting rifle. Bought thirty years ago, registered. Hope we don't need it, but… just in case."
Elisa looked at the worn canvas bag on the table, her throat tight. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but found all words inadequate at this moment.
Finally, she just reached out, gently touched the rough surface of the bag, then looked up at the faces surrounding her. "Thank you. But for now, I only need Lorenzo with me."
Her voice held a tremor she rarely revealed.
---
One hour later, behind the Costa Bakery.
Maria shoved a bulky cloth bundle into Lorenzo's hands. "Sandwiches. Ham and cheese. Bottled water, some fruit." She pulled out a small glass vial containing clear liquid. "Holy water. From the church. Keep it."
Gianluigi handed the car keys to Lorenzo, patting the hood. "Tank's full. Oil, brake fluid checked. Remember, take the old road through Montalcino. Longer, but safer."
Sofia handed Elisa a notebook and pen. "In case you need to note something. And this—" she took out a small silver brooch set with a moonstone, pinning it to Elisa's lapel, "—Grandma gave it to me last birthday. Said moonstone protects travelers. Now it protects you."
Giulio came forward last. He looked awkward, but finally pulled a small, hand-carved wooden amulet from his pocket—a rough olive wood charm shaped like a tiny shield, carved with a simple "A."
"Carved it last night," he mumbled, eyes on the floor. "Not great craft, but… hope it brings luck."
Elisa took the amulet, still warm from the boy's body heat, and closed her hand tightly around it. The warm wood edges pressed into her palm, giving her a strange sense of solidity.
She hugged each of them—hugged Maria tightly, breathing in the ever-present scents of flour and yeast; hugged Gianluigi, feeling the solid strength of his broad back; hugged Sofia, smelling the faint lavender of her shampoo; finally hugged Giulio, the always-boisterous boy now quiet as a child.
"I'll be back," she whispered in each ear.
"Of course you will," Maria said, wiping tears but forcing a smile. "This door is always open for you."
Lorenzo opened the car door for Elisa. Before she got in, he paused, reaching to adjust the moonstone brooch on her lapel. His fingers brushed her jawline so lightly it was barely a touch.
"Ready?" he asked softly.
Elisa nodded, settling into the passenger seat.
The car started, the engine giving its familiar, reliable rumble. Slowly, it pulled out of the back alley onto the small road leading out of town. Elisa looked back in the rearview mirror. The Costa family still stood at the back door—Maria leaning against Gianluigi, Sofia with an arm around her mother's shoulders, Giulio on tiptoe, waving.
Only when the town's stone towers vanished completely behind the hills did she turn back, taking a deep breath.
Lorenzo drove intently, eyes fixed on the winding mountain road ahead. Morning light filtered through the trees, casting dancing spots on the windshield.
"Are you nervous?" he suddenly asked.
Elisa thought, answering honestly. "A little. But not from fear."
"Then from what?"
"Because…" she looked at the olive groves flashing past the window, "…because for the first time, I feel that even if I lose, someone will be there to catch me."
Lorenzo didn't reply immediately. The car rounded a sharp bend, tires crunching over gravel.
"You won't lose," he finally said, a note of undeniable certainty in his voice. "Because you're not alone."
Elisa turned to look at him. Morning light from the side window outlined his profile as he focused on driving—the straight nose, tightly pressed lips, jawline slightly tensed with concentration. This man, who had entered her life through a contract, was now driving her straight into a storm.
And what she felt was not fear, but a strange kind of peace.
---
Three hours later, they reached the Rossi Group jewelry atelier on the outskirts of Tuscany.
The atelier sat in a valley embraced by hills, a low-key stone building looking more like an ancient monastery than a modern factory. But now, the parking lot was eerily empty, only a few employees' cars sitting lonely.
Lorenzo parked the Fiat in the shade, away from the main entrance. They got out. The air was thick with the scents of olive trees and rosemary, and the distant, faint hum of machinery.
"Side entrance," Elisa murmured, leading Lorenzo to an inconspicuous iron door on the building's side. She keyed in a code; the lock gave a soft click.
Inside was a dim corridor, the air faintly metallic with dust and wax. Most offices along the corridor were closed, only the largest one at the end—the atelier manager's office—showed light.
They were almost at the door when it opened.
The atelier manager, Marco Benedetti—a man in his fifties with thick yet remarkably dexterous fingers—stood inside, his face etched with worry and exhaustion. "Signora Rossi. Grazie a Dio you're here."
"How bad, Marco?" Elisa entered, getting straight to the point.
"Bad." Marco shook his head, gesturing to the documents spread on the desk. "Media are circling like vultures. Half the staff called in—not that they don't believe us, but fear of reporter harassment. Production is nearly halted." He paused, voice dropping lower. "And… someone's been asking about the original quality control records."
Elisa's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
"Don't know. Anonymous calls. But they sounded… professional." Marco rubbed his calloused hands together. "I followed your instructions. All sensitive documents are locked in the basement archive. Only you and I know the code."
Elisa nodded. "Take me there."
The archive was deep in the atelier's basement. Beyond a heavy fireproof door was another world. Rows of steel filing cabinets stretched from floor to ceiling. The air smelled of old paper and mothballs. Here lay records of every piece created by the Rossi atelier in sixty years—from design sketches to raw material purchase orders, from quality inspection reports for each process to final product release records.
Marco opened the innermost safe, pulling out a thick stack of folders. "These are records for all haute couture series using natural gemstones in the past three years. Every stone has its own 'identity card'—GIA certificate number, source, cutter's signature, setting records, final inspection report… all here."
Elisa took the folders, flipping through rapidly. Her eyes scanned the dense data and signatures, her mind working like a precision instrument.
Lorenzo stood to the side, quietly observing. His gaze didn't linger on the documents, but moved slowly around the archive—the labels organized by year and series, the worn edges of folders from constant handling, the handwritten reminder notes stuck to cabinet doors…
"Wait," he suddenly spoke, walking toward another row of cabinets. "What are these?"
Marco followed his gaze. "Ah, those are supplier transaction files. Purchase orders, payment records, quality assessment reports…"
Lorenzo's fingers lightly brushed a row of labels. "May I see all contracts with small, independent suppliers from the past three years? Especially… those where cooperation was suddenly terminated."
Elisa looked up, a flash of understanding in her eyes. She quickly joined him, and they began sifting through the files together.
Time passed in silence. Only the rustle of turning pages and the distant, perhaps imagined, hum of machinery.
Then, around four in the afternoon, as the setting sun began to tint the high basement air vents amber, Lorenzo's finger stopped on a document.
"Here," he said softly, his voice clear as a bell in the quiet archive.
Elisa leaned over. It was a purchase contract from two years ago with a small atelier named "Artigianato Prezioso" (Precious Handcraft), specializing in specially cut colored gemstones. The contract term was three years, but cooperation ended abruptly after a year and a half, citing "quality non-compliance."
But what caught Lorenzo's eye was the signature at the contract's end.
The supplier signature was a florid initial: "C.B."
And the approval signature from Rossi Group's side…
Elisa picked up the contract, holding it close to the light. Her breath hitched.
Beneath the signature of the now-departed purchasing vice president was an almost invisible note in very light pencil. Tiny writing, partially covered by a later stamp, but still legible under scrutiny:
"Recommended by K.V. Price 15% above market, but promises top quality. Approved."
K.V.
Elisa and Lorenzo exchanged a look, seeing the same guess mirrored in each other's eyes.
The initials for Visconti.
Outside, the sun sank completely behind the hills. The basement lights seemed unnaturally pale in that moment. In the distance, the sound of car engines approached, finally stopping at the atelier's main gate.
Marco's face changed. "Not staff cars. Everyone's gone home by now."
Elisa quickly photographed the contract, then returned the original to the cabinet. Her movements were quick and steady, but Lorenzo noticed the faint tremor in her hands—not from fear, but the tremor of burning anger.
"We need to leave," Lorenzo whispered.
Slipping out the side door, they saw two unfamiliar cars parked at the main entrance. Several people with professional cameras and recording equipment were talking to the security guard.
The Fiat slid silently from the shadows onto the mountain road back to San Gimignano. Silence filled the car, only the low engine rumble and the wind rushing past the windows.
Elisa clutched her phone, the screen showing the photo of the contract. The tiny "Recommended by K.V." line was a thorn in her vision.
"We need more evidence," she finally said, her voice unnervingly calm in the dark car. "This alone proves nothing."
Lorenzo watched the road ahead, hands steady on the wheel. "But it's a start."
"Yes," Elisa turned off the phone screen, leaning back in her seat, closing her eyes. "A very bad start."
Outside, night had fully fallen over Tuscany. Stars began to appear above the hills like countless silent eyes, watching the old Fiat traveling alone on the mountain road, and the two people within, driving toward an unknown storm.
And in the atelier archive they had just left, the contract returned to its place lay quietly in the dark. Until midnight, when the archive door opened again. A flashlight beam swept over the steel cabinets, finally stopping on the section labeled "Supplier Contracts - Terminated."
A hand reached in and pulled out that contract.