The next seventy-two hours were the most decisive battle of Elisa Rossi's career.
She and Lorenzo did not return to San Gimignano. They checked into an unassuming but tightly secured small hotel in Florence, turning it into a temporary war room. Copies of documents from the atelier, financial statement analyses Lorenzo had compiled overnight, and supplementary materials constantly faxed over by Anna from the Milan headquarters covered the table, bed, and even the carpet.
Under the dim desk lamp, Elisa's eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, but her gaze was sharp as a hawk's. Dressed in a simple black turtleneck, her hair tied back casually, her fingers flew across her laptop keyboard, occasionally pausing to jot down key points on sticky notes with the ultra-fine drawing pencil she always carried.
Lorenzo managed another front. He applied his archival talents to their fullest, patiently and precisely untangling what seemed like centuries of knotted threads, organizing timelines, verifying signature patterns, and tracing fund flows. He uncovered more subtle connections: Carlo Bergamo's nearly bankrupt company received a "consulting fee" from an overseas shell company three months before launching the media attack; the "former Rossi employee" who sobbed at the press conference had social security records showing he was actually employed by a PR firm with long-term ties to Visconti Bank after leaving Rossi.
"Here," Lorenzo pushed several printouts towards Elisa at 3 a.m., his voice hoarse with fatigue yet tinged with the excitement of a hunter finding trap signs, "Three years ago, when Rossi Group rejected the renewal proposal from 'Artigianato Prezioso,' the then-purchasing VP received an anonymous threatening email. It didn't threaten directly but hinted that 'refusing cooperation would affect career prospects.' Two weeks later, that VP received an offer from a subsidiary under the Visconti Group with a significantly higher position and salary."
Elisa picked up the papers, her eyes locked on the paragraphs Lorenzo had highlighted in yellow. Her fingertips were cold, but a cold fire burned in her chest. "So, the planning started three years ago. Carlo is just a pawn pushed to the front."
"A resentful, easily bought pawn," Lorenzo added. "I checked his personal finances; drowning in debt. That 'consulting fee' was enough to make him desperate."
They exchanged a look. No words were needed. Both understood the role "K.V." played in this web. Anger? Absolutely. But now, anger had to yield to something more critical—the counterattack.
Elisa grabbed the hotel's internal phone, dialing Caterina's number. Her voice was as calm as if discussing tomorrow's weather. "Caterina, prepare three things: First, criminal litigation documents for defamation and commercial disparagement against Carlo Bergamo. I want the strictest terms. Second, release a detailed timeline report and evidence summary to financial regulators and major media, highlighting abnormal supplier contracts, forged evidence, and key witness conflicts of interest. Third, arrange a press conference for tomorrow afternoon. Not in Milan. At the atelier in Florence. I will address the public next to the production line, in front of all employees who stayed."
Hanging up, she turned to Lorenzo, her eyes ablaze with a go-for-broke intensity. "I need you to help me organize the final evidence chain presentation. Make it clear, intuitive, so even a complete outsider can see the fraud."
Lorenzo nodded without hesitation. "Give me four hours."
At dawn, as the first grey light filtered through the curtains, Lorenzo emailed a fifteen-page, graphically rich presentation file to Elisa. She scrolled through page by page, her breathing deepening. This wasn't just an evidence compilation; it was a tightly logical, clearly narrated story, laying bare Carlo's lies, the money trail, and the hidden hands trying to manipulate public opinion.
"Perfect," she whispered, looking up at Lorenzo, who was resting with his eyes closed against the chair back. Dawn light outlined his tired yet resolute profile, stubble shadowing his jaw. A strong, complex emotion struck her—gratitude, reliance, something deeper.
That afternoon, the production floor of the Rossi atelier in Tuscany was temporarily set up as a press venue. The backdrop was quietly humming precision instruments and focused artisans; the air held a faint dust of metal and wax. Cameras of all sizes were trained on Elisa Rossi, who stood before a workbench.
She wore a sharp navy pantsuit, no dazzling jewelry except Sofia's moonstone brooch at her lapel, glowing softly under the lights. Her face was slightly pale, but her back was straight, chin lifted slightly, her gaze sweeping the room with the cool, regal authority of a queen surveying her domain.
No weeping, no sentimentality. For twenty minutes, using the presentation Lorenzo had created on the large screen behind her, she laid out the complete chain of evidence in plain, powerful language. When the photoshopped discrepancies in the forged documents were magnified for comparison, when the suspicious fund flow charts were displayed, when the "conscience-stricken employee's" true employment was exposed, suppressed gasps and frantic shutter clicks erupted from the audience.
Finally, Elisa stepped forward, placing her hands lightly on the edge of the workbench—the place where she had created countless beautiful pieces. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly to every ear:
"Ninety years of Rossi Jewels are built on two cornerstones: impeccable quality and uncompromising integrity. Today, someone tried to shake it with lies. They failed. Because truth fears no scrutiny, an artisan's conscience cannot be bought, and a brand's true value comes from the reality it creates, day after day, hammer stroke after chisel stroke."
She paused, her gaze seeming to travel beyond the cameras:
"I want to thank all Rossi employees who trusted and held fast during this difficult time. And I thank my family," her tone softened slightly, her gaze drifting almost imperceptibly toward Lorenzo standing in the shadows at the side of the workshop, "They gave me the courage and peace to face the storm."
Less than an hour after the press conference ended, Carlo Bergamo, accompanied by lawyers, stumbled before another media outlet, his face ashen, reading a rambling "clarification statement," admitting some accusations were "exaggerated and misunderstood," blaming everything on "emotional distress and an excessive reaction to industry unfairness." But it was too late. Official police notification of the case and Rossi Group's astronomical claim had already reached his office.
That evening's financial news and the next day's newspaper headlines completely reversed direction. *"Liar Exposed: Elisa Rossi's Ironclad Rebuttal," "From Scandal to Farce: A Flawed Business Smear," "Rossi Jewels Stock Soars Against Trend, Market Votes with Confidence"*… the headlines grew more sensational. On social media, the hashtag "#StandWithRossi" topped the trends.
The storm had subsided, in dramatic fashion.
San Gimignano, Costa Bakery.
The press conference was watched on the bakery's old television. When Elisa delivered her final words, deafening cheers erupted in the small kitchen.
"Brava! Bravissima!" Maria screamed, throwing her arms around Gianluigi. Gianluigi, usually a man of few words, flushed with excitement, punching the air as if he himself had just won a world championship.
Giulio and Sofia jumped and cheered. Sofia even leapt onto a chair (promptly swatted down by Maria). "Did you see that! See that! My sister-in-law is so cool! That look! That evidence! My God, better than a movie!"
When the news began showing Carlo Bergamo's pitiful image, Giulio let out a loud boo, grabbing a piece of leftover bread to throw at the screen (swiftly intercepted by Maria). "Serves you right! Idiot! For slandering my sister-in-law!"
News spread through the town like wildfire. Within half an hour, the bakery door was knocked upon.
First was Salvatore, the butcher, carrying a huge, premium Parma ham, face beaming. "Mamma mia! Gianluigi! Your daughter-in-law is a general! No, a queen! I was fired up watching on TV! This ham, for celebration! Must celebrate!"
Next, Pietro, the retired postman, rushed in with a case of homemade wine. "I ran to three shops to get enough balloons and streamers! The bakery must be decorated today! This is the town's honor!"
Leonardo, the carpenter, brought a small wooden plaque he'd hurriedly made overnight, engraved: "Here lives a true queen—the pride of San Gimignano."
The women arrived in groups too. Clara from the fruit shop brought mountains of fresh fruit; Angela from the florist brought a huge, vibrant bouquet of sunflowers ("Like Elisa, bright and strong!"); Livia the seamstress even brought a bottle of her prized, rarely opened sparkling wine.
The small bakery had never been so crowded and noisy. The air was thick with the salty aroma of ham, the richness of wine, the fragrance of flowers, and the excited sweat and laughter of people. The TV was turned up to maximum volume, replaying highlights of the press conference. Every time Elisa revealed key evidence or delivered a powerful line, a new round of cheers and applause erupted.
Maria was run off her feet, pouring wine, slicing ham, handing out bread, her smile never fading, tears welling up now and then, wiped hastily with her apron corner. She listened to the neighbors' praises over and over, each time straightening her back, replying with a mixture of pride, humility, and boundless affection:
"Yes, yes, that child has always been exceptional… No, not because I taught her well, she's incredible herself… Ah, Lorenzo finding her was truly blessed… What? Was I nervous? Of course I was! Couldn't sleep these past days! But now it's fine, now it's fine…"
Gianluigi was surrounded by his old buddies, accepting toasts one after another. He didn't speak much, but with each glass, the flush on his face deepened—a pure, paternal pride overflowing from his heart. When Pietro threw an arm around his neck shouting, "Old friend, the best thing you ever did was raise a capable son who married a radiant daughter-in-law!" Gianluigi just nodded heavily, raising his glass and downing it in one go. Some things needed no words.
Sofia and Giulio became the most popular "spokespersons," surrounded by a crowd of young people firing questions about Elisa.
"Is she that imposing in private too?"
"How did she find all that evidence?"
"Did Lorenzo really help that much?"
Sofia vividly described Elisa calmly drinking coffee in the kitchen, while Giulio embellished his tale of "how he spotted the Bentley mystery" (conveniently omitting the ladle-chasing part). Both teenagers were animated, basking in reflected glory.
That evening, Costa Bakery became the heart of joy in San Gimignano. Lights blazed, laughter and chatter spilled from the windows, blending with the warm Tuscan night breeze. It was a small town's simplest, most sincere celebration for one of its own.
Only when the crowd finally dispersed late into the night did Maria remember to call Elisa.
When the call connected, the background was quiet, with the faint sound of distant city traffic.
"Mamma?" Elisa's voice held a note of weariness, but was soft.
"My dear! My good girl!" Maria's tears flowed again. "We watched! All of us! Magnificent! You were incredible! Your father, Giulio, Sofia, the whole town, we're all so happy for you!"
Elisa chuckled softly on the other end; one could imagine her slight smile. "Thank you, Mamma. Thank you all… for being my anchor."
"Don't be silly! Are you alright? Tired? Have you eaten? And Lorenzo? Is he taking good care of you?"
"We're both fine, ate something. Lorenzo… he was a huge help. Without him, the evidence wouldn't have been sorted so quickly."
"Good, good…" Maria chattered on with instructions for a while before reluctantly hanging up. She turned, looking at the messy yet joy-filled kitchen, and said to Gianluigi, "The children said they'll handle some things at their Milan home tonight and come back in a couple of days."
Gianluigi nodded, gazing out at the starry sky, murmuring, "They should go back. A queen must return to her palace after her victory."
Milan, the Rossi family estate.
Only a desk lamp was on in the study. Having washed away her fatigue and changed into comfortable home clothes, Elisa finally sat behind the desk, meticulously reading through the flood of congratulatory emails and messages. On a nearby computer screen, the reassuring green line of the company's rebounding stock price flickered.
Lorenzo stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the tranquil night in the garden below. This place was so different from San Gimignano—refined, spacious, orderly, yet lacking that overwhelming, vibrant warmth of life.
"Thank you for today," Elisa's voice came from behind him.
Lorenzo turned. "I didn't do anything special."
"You did," Elisa stood, walking to his side, also gazing out the window. "You gave me a harbor to retreat to, a calm mind to sort through evidence, and…" she paused, "…the confidence to face it all."
Lorenzo looked at her. The lamplight cast soft shadows on her face, softening her daytime sharpness, revealing a more genuine vulnerability. An impulse surged within him, a desire to brush aside a slightly damp strand of hair from her forehead, but his fingers merely twitched before he restrained them.
"This was your victory, Elisa," he said earnestly. "You've always had that strength. I just… happened to see it."
Just then, Elisa's phone on the desk lit up with a new message notification. The sender wasn't saved, just a string of numbers. The content was brief:
"Masterful performance. But the stage never stays clean. Take care. – A"
Elisa picked up the phone, looked at the message, her brow furrowing almost imperceptibly before she expressionlessly deleted it.
Lorenzo didn't ask who it was. He saw her fleeting change in mood. Some things were better left unspoken.
In a penthouse study of the Visconti family mansion on the other side of the city, Alessandro Visconti turned off the tablet playing the evening financial analysis. Elisa's cool, triumphant face vanished from the screen.
The room had no main lights on, only the flickering fire from the fireplace, casting his handsome face in shifting light and shadow. He held a glass of amber whiskey, the ice mostly melted.
He walked to the massive window, looking down at Milan's dazzling yet cold nightscape. In the distance, the direction of the Rossi estate showed only scattered lights, silent.
"Performance…" he repeated the word softly, a humorless twist at his lips. "Indeed masterful. Underestimated you, Elisa. And underestimated… him."
He downed the remaining whiskey in his glass, the cold liquid burning his throat yet failing to quell the flames of frustration, resentment, and an even sharper possessive desire in his heart. The chess game had just begun; the loss of a pawn meant little. A true hunter knows how to wait, and how to strike at the fatal moment when the prey is most off guard.
Outside, Milan's night was deep. One storm had calmed, but deeper, darker currents were quietly brewing beneath the seemingly placid surface.