For the next three days, Sophia Rossi paced the expansive yet suffocating rooms of the Milan estate like a cat with a nervous disorder.
The disposable phone, that demon harboring the fragments of the "Phoenix," was wrapped in several layers of velvet cloth and buried in the deepest recess of her dressing table's bottom drawer, buried under out-of-season silk scarves and unworn gloves. Yet it felt alive, radiating a feverish heat through wood and fabric, scalding her nerves.
By day, she struggled to maintain the composure expected of Signora Rossi, overseeing household matters, arranging flowers, even attending a tedious opera. But her eyes were unfocused; she needed maids' questions repeated; she jammed a rose thorn deep into her thumb while arranging blooms without noticing. At night, sleep was impossible. Closing her eyes brought visions of Elisa's brilliant eyes in the study, the string of numbers—"820 million"—Massimo's drunken, careless face, and… her firstborn son, in the summer before he drowned, laughing with a young Elisa perched on his shoulders. Memory and malice, reason and madness, tore and churned in her mind, brewing into a scalding, toxic stew.
On the fourth morning, pallid sunlight streamed into the bedroom. Sophia sat before her vanity, observing the dark circles under her eyes and the downward turn of her mouth in the mirror. She knew she couldn't wait any longer. Every second of hesitation eroded her resolve. Act now, or let those photos rot inside her forever.
She yanked the drawer open, pushed aside the soft fabrics, and seized the velvet pouch. It felt cold, yet her fingertips recoiled as if burned. She entered the small, soundproofed study adjoining her bedroom and locked the door.
Drawing the heavy curtains plunged the room into artificial twilight. Only a desk lamp cast a dim, yellowish circle of light onto the broad writing surface, like a solitary lamp in a courtroom. She placed the cheap black plastic phone in the center of the light. It looked so crude, so insignificant, utterly incongruous with the rococo gilt furniture, yet it seemed to bear the weight to topple an entire family.
Power on. The screen glowed with a cold blue light, casting her face in stark, mask-like contrast.
She was prepared. Days earlier, under the pretext of "wanting to experience ordinary life," she had sent a trusted, long-serving maid—a taciturn distant relative almost forgotten by the family—to a small electronics shop in an outlying Milan district to purchase, with cash, the cheapest prepaid phone with no registration and an equally anonymous SIM card. The old maid asked no questions, but her clouded eyes held an inexpressible sorrow as she handed it over. Sophia avoided that gaze.
Now, with slightly trembling fingers, she fumbled with the simple device. No contacts, no internet, just a basic messaging interface. She had already looked up the name: **Jean-Pierre Durand**, Vice President of Strategic Investments at France's Leval Group. A man notorious for his keen nose, ruthless methods, and willingness to do anything to achieve his goals. Crucially, Leval Group had long been overshadowed by Rossi in haute horology and would be ravenous for any opportunity to strike at Rossi, especially one encroaching on the complex mechanical movements they considered their domain.
How to phrase the message? She was no corporate spy, unversed in subtleties. She relied on instinct, mimicking what she imagined a "disgruntled insider" might sound like. Her fingers tapped the cold plastic keys, deleting, rewriting, a fine sweat breaking out on her forehead.
Finally, steeling herself, she began to type. Each letter felt like dancing on knife points.
**[Recipient: Unknown Number (a lead, gleaned with great effort from the fringes of a discreet business gossip forum, purportedly Durand's private contact. Unverifiable. A gamble.)]**
**Message Content:**
> M. Durand, forgive the intrusion. Information from within Rossi, from one disillusioned with the current path. This is no jest. Rossi is secretly advancing a super-project codenamed "Phoenix Rising." A core element: acquiring "Le Petit Royaume" atelier in Switzerland's Jura valley, to secure their pinnacle micro-mechanical movement technology for entry into the top-tier watch market. Budget is staggering (exceeding 800 million euros). Concurrently, they plan to sever ties with long-term advertising partner "Aurora" within three months (key date: circa December 15), pivoting to Berlin's "Kern." Internal dissent is significant over this radical, costly strategy that discards old loyalties; the cash flow may not be as robust as it appears. I say no more. Believe it or not. — An "Insider" who dislikes seeing Rossi charge down the wrong path.
No signature. Send.
The moment she pressed send, Sophia slumped back into the high-backed chair as if all strength had been drained. Her heart hammered violently, a roaring filled her ears. She stared at the phone screen, watched the "Sent" notification appear, then swiftly powered off the device and removed the battery—as if that could sever all connection between it, herself, and the world.
Deathly silence filled the room. The lamplight seemed to turn ghastly white. She covered her face with her hands, icy fingertips touching equally cold cheeks. There was no anticipated relief, only a vast, hollow panic and guilt so thick it choked her. What had she done? She had actually done it! Handed a knife to the family's enemy, aimed at her own daughter's back (though she refused to acknowledge the bond).
Minutes later—or perhaps an eternity—she staggered to her feet, walked to the small liquor cabinet in the corner, poured herself a large glass of whiskey, neat, and downed it in one gulp. The liquor burned her throat and stomach, offering a phantom warmth and numbness. She placed the phone and battery into separate old envelopes and hid them deep within the soot-filled flue of the study's disused fireplace, a place untouched for years.
Having done this, she washed her face, meticulously reapplied her makeup, changed into another appropriate day dress, took several deep breaths to force her expression into calmness, then opened the study door and stepped out. The corridor was sunny; a maid was polishing the banister. All was normal. She even managed a stiff, plaster-like smile for the maid.
**One week later, the first drop of the coming storm fell silently in Switzerland's Jura valley.**
The master of "Le Petit Royaume," Henri Dubois, was a seventy-five-year-old as stubborn as the valley granite. He dealt only with people he liked; money wasn't the sole criterion. Rossi's preliminary team (operating under the guise of an obscure investment firm) had appealed to him—professional, respectful of tradition, no nonsense. A preliminary agreement and price were nearly settled, pending final details and formal contracts.
Then, Leval Group arrived like wolves scenting blood. Led by Jean-Pierre Durand himself. He landed by helicopter in the valley town square, making quite the entrance. He didn't mince words. His opening offer exceeded Rossi's by twenty percent, cash payment, with promises to retain all artisans and the atelier's independence, plus major investment for expansion.
Crucially, Durand had somehow uncovered old Dubois's soft spot—his son, desperate to see the family atelier's work in modern art museums. Durand promised Leval would leverage its top-tier resources to organize a global touring art exhibition for "Le Petit Royaume" and push for acquisitions by key contemporary design museums.
Old Dubois wavered. Money was one thing; his son's dream and the atelier's "immortal" future were another. Rossi's "respect for tradition" was good, but Leval offered a more glorious, tangible "future." He politely but firmly halted further negotiations with Rossi's proxy team.
The news reached Elisa via encrypted priority message during a meeting. Anna entered quietly, handing her a tablet with a single line: "Swiss target intercepted by Leval. Offer +20%, plus cultural commitments. Dubois's stance changed."
Elisa's face paled for an instant before she regained composure, but her knuckles whitened where she gripped the tablet's edge. She called a five-minute recess and walked to the window. Outside, Milan's sky was a brilliant blue, but her heart plummeted. Acquiring "Le Petit Royaume" was the technical cornerstone of "Phoenix." That cornerstone, not yet laid, was being pulled away? How did Leval know? The timing was too precise. A 20% premium and pinpointed cultural promises—this was no random market competition.
A leak. The word pierced her mind like an ice pick. Her grandfather's warning echoed: "A leak is suicide."
**Another week passed. The second poisoned arrow struck, aimed at the court of public opinion.**
Rossi Group's contract with the "Aurora" advertising agency had slightly over two months remaining. Industry practice and their long partnership dictated a graceful wind-down, perhaps even a joint statement of thanks, even if they didn't renew. Elisa's team was already secretly preparing to engage Berlin's "Kern" while planning a smooth transition to avoid the appearance of "Rossi coldly discarding an old partner."
At this delicate juncture, news erupted from within "Aurora": their core creative director, along with two top copywriters and art directors, had submitted resignations en masse and jumped ship to—a newly established brand imaging studio under the Leval Group. Immediately afterward, whispers began circulating in Milan's tight-knit fashion and advertising circles: Rossi Group, due to the enormous costs of "Project Phoenix," was tightening its marketing budget across the board; "Aurora" was being heartlessly cut for "cost reasons." More detailed rumors claimed Rossi was dissatisfied with "Aurora's" recent work, finding it "lacking innovation, unworthy of Rossi's new ambitions," casting aside years of collaboration.
These rumors spread like mold in unseen corners. While not yet in mainstream media, they were enough to foster an impression within the close-knit community: Was Rossi in financial trouble? Had it become arrogant and ungrateful?
When Anna reported these gathered fragments, her brow was furrowed. "It's not right, Elisa. Leval's moves are too targeted. It's as if… as if they're working from our playbook. Poaching Aurora's core team is a masterstroke, and the timing is venomous—right when we're preparing to switch but haven't announced."
Elisa stood before her office's expansive window, her back straight but emanating coldness. First the Swiss atelier, now the advertising partner… This was no coincidence. It was precision sniping. The opponent not only knew of "Phoenix's" existence but had gleaned key nodes and strategies! There was a traitor inside, and not a low-level one—someone with access to highly sensitive information.
**Meanwhile, in the more shadowy realms of financial social circles and certain investment banks' coffee break chatter, vague murmurs about Rossi Group's "unusually large fund movements" and "potential immense financial strain from a super-project" began to seep like quicksilver.** While devoid of hard evidence, a figure in the "800 million euro" range, even as speculation, was enough to give some sensitive investors and partners pause, prompting a reassessment of Rossi's short-term risk. Rossi Group's stock price, after its sustained climb, showed subtle, abnormal fluctuations and increased volume. Though quickly stabilized, it caught the attention of some analysts.
Sophia, through her own channels, cautiously monitored these ripples. Each piece of "bad news" made her heart clench, but it was swiftly filled by a twisted, dark satisfaction that "things were proceeding as planned." She noticed Elisa came home even less frequently, and when she did, her brow was etched with unconcealable weariness and frost. Old Vittorio spoke even less at the dinner table, and his gaze when it fell on Elisa held an increasing weight of scrutiny.
During a rare family dinner where Massimo was present, still distractedly playing with his phone, the old man suddenly spoke, his quiet voice silencing the table. "Elisa, I hear there was an… unexpected development with that 'Le Petit Royaume' atelier?"
Elisa set down her fork and knife, dabbed her lips with a napkin, her movements still elegant, but Sophia saw the subtle bob of her throat. "Yes, Nonno. Leval made an intervening offer with terms we couldn't match. The acquisition… has failed." She admitted it cleanly, offering no excuse.
"Failed?" The old man repeated, his knife scraping clearly against his steak plate. "I recall you being quite confident last time. 'The only key'?" His hawk-like gaze swept over Elisa, then seemed to drift past Lorenzo at the table.
Massimo looked up, blinking vaguely. "What atelier? Expensive? What happens if it fails?"
Sophia kicked her son sharply under the table, her face wearing an expression of perfect concern. "Oh dear, such an important acquisition… Could there have been some… internal misstep? A breach of confidentiality?" Her words were a needle, lightly pricking the surface calm.
Andrea frowned, giving his wife a disapproving look but saying nothing.
Elisa's gaze sharpened instantly, a blade aimed at her mother. But Sophia had already lowered her eyes, elegantly cutting her food as if her remark had been an innocent slip.
Lorenzo spoke calmly, his voice steadying the thickening atmosphere. "Acquisition setbacks are common in business. We've activated contingency plans and are evaluating two alternative ateliers in Germany and Japan. 'Phoenix' will not stall."
The old man said nothing more, but the heavy, suspicious atmosphere had already permeated the room, settling over each person present.
Sophia knew the poisoned arrows had flown and were drawing blood. Step one—disrupting "Phoenix's" foundation, shaking Elisa's authority—was achieving its initial aim. And she still held more cards. Watching her daughter's forced composure and her husband and son's oblivious expressions, the last remnants of softness in her heart were utterly consumed by cold resolve.
This was only the beginning. For Massimo's sake, and for the injustice that had never ceased burning within her, the dark fire she had ignited must burn brighter.