Alessandro Visconti received the news of Rossi Group's internal turmoil in a private bank's Zurich penthouse, gazing at the Limmat River's dark green surface. His shadow-like chief assistant delivered the concise encrypted report: "Rossi 'Phoenix Rising' project compromised. Core acquisition intercepted by Leval. Elisa Rossi suspended. Husband Lorenzo Costa expelled from Group and residence. Primary suspect."
Alessandro paused the swirling amber liquid in his glass. He walked to the panoramic window, his pale blue eyes registering first surprise—this wasn't his doing. His focus had been on exploiting post-"Carlo" vulnerabilities, not engineering such an intricate internal collapse.
But surprise swiftly yielded to a hunter's sharp delight and cold calculation. The usual aloof curve of his lips flattened, then lifted into an aggressive, predatory smile.
"Not our handiwork?" he confirmed calmly.
"Confirmed, sir. Timing and method don't match our channels," the assistant replied.
"Intriguing." Alessandro swirled his glass, ice clinking. "Investigate. Our methods. Focus: initial *informal* leak channel. How much did Leval's movements precede Rossi's formal internal processes?"
"Understood."
Alone by the window, city lights flickering in his eyes, Alessandro assessed. Not his action, but the result was superior. Elisa suspended—vulnerable, trust fractured. That inconvenient Costa removed—an unexpected boon. The proud, elusive queen was dethroned, likely wrapped in the chill of intimate betrayal.
The perfect moment to strike had arrived.
Days later, detailed intelligence and analysis reached him. Visconti Bank's network proved formidable. The report indicated Leval's moves regarding "Le Petit Royaume" preceded Rossi's final digital approvals, suggesting a raw, informal leak source—perhaps a verbal briefing or an unrecorded paper draft.
Further, the analysis hinted Rossi's internal probe seemed directed at Lorenzo's "potential access," not tracing the leak's original form or context. This itself was telling.
Alessandro closed the report, fingertips tapping the leather cover. Truth was irrelevant. He needed a narrative to weaken Elisa's trust.
"Create some… subtle touches," he ordered. "No evidence needed. Suggestive 'coincidences.' For instance, anonymized data trails vaguely pointing to Tuscany—Costa's origin and recent destination. Or unusual network activity in specific Milan zones near the Rossi estate around the leak timeline. Make it seem aged, incidental—like settled dust, not fresh marks."
"Yes, sir. The distribution?"
"Anonymous to that vocal board member, Marco. Or 'leak' to unscrupulous financial reporters. Let them feel they've dug up gold." His eyes gleamed coldly. "We merely 'circulate' existing 'points of concern.' We know nothing."
Task dispatched, he changed into an expensive charcoal cashmere suit, deliberately casual, no tie—projecting "concerned distraction." He dialed Elisa's number. It rang persistently before she answered.
"Elisa." His voice softened with calculated worry. "I'm in Milan. I heard… shocking news. Are you alright?"
A brief silence, then her weary but controlled reply: "Alessandro. I'm fine. Thank you."
"I'm at the 'Nuvole' terrace. It overlooks the Duomo. It's quiet. You might need a drink. Or just to talk. Alone." His invitation brooked no refusal. "An old friend's offer. I'll wait."
He hung up, confident she needed escape, and he offered a respectable harbor.
An hour later, Elisa appeared on the terrace. The evening wind tousled her unstyled hair. She wore simple black, no makeup, shadows under her eyes, yet her posture remained unyielding.
Alessandro rose, his gaze lingering with feigned pity. "You look exhausted," he sighed, signaling the waiter—her preferred Burgundy already waiting.
"State your purpose, Alessandro." Elisa ignored the glass, her gaze level. "This isn't a social call."
He offered a wry smile. "Still direct. Very well." Leaning forward, hands clasped, he adopted a confiding tone. "The news is dire. 'Phoenix,' the leak, your suspension… Costa's situation." He watched her closely. "Betrayed trust must—"
"Lorenzo hasn't betrayed me." Her voice was clear, definitive.
A flicker of darkness crossed his eyes, masked by deepened "concern." "Elisa, I understand defense. But matters may be complex. Through certain channels, I've caught… whispers." He lowered his voice. "The inquiry found… coincidences unfavorable to Costa. Digital traces, timing alignments… It sounds conspiratorial, but in this climate, doubt amplifies. Especially for someone… outside Rossi's traditional circle."
He sowed doubt with vague, insidious terms.
"Your point?" Her eyes chilled.
"Merely that circumstances appear questionable. He might have—"
"That he sold me out? For money?" Her tone sharpened.
"I worry for *you*!" he protested, expression pained. "Look at your state! Suspended, your work ruined, bearing internal pressure! This could have been avoided! If only you had…" He trailed off strategically.
"If only what?" Ice edged her voice.
He met her gaze, intensity feigned. "If only your partner understood your world, offered true support, not… complications! End this marital farce! It began as error! Correct it now!"
The dagger unveiled.
Elisa regarded him, finding him suddenly foreign, repellent. She stood, looking down, each word precise.
"Alessandro Visconti, note this. First, my marriage is neither farce nor error. It's among my clearest, least regrettable choices."
"Second, Lorenzo Costa's worth lies in integrity, resilience, clarity, and a guardian's heart. His character, I know. He's innocent. I trust him as I trust dawn—without reason, and certainly not on your 'whispers.'"
"Third," her voice rose slightly, drawing glances she ignored, "my career, my challenges, are mine to resolve. I require no one's 'help' as pretext to trample my choices or dignity. Your 'support's' price is prohibitive. I neither can nor will pay it."
Her declaration rang clear, striking his carefully crafted facade. His complexion shifted, the mask of concern dissolving into cold bedrock. Rejection, scorn from her—it unleashed suppressed fury.
He stood, his height allowing a slight downward gaze, his lips twisting into a sneer.
"A moving testament, Elisa," he said, voice turned acrid. "You treasure his modest wit and bakery 'warmth.' But observe—who else shares your view? Rossi's ranks see a fortunate interloper. Even your mother, Sophia,"
He paused, noting her minute reaction,
"—hasn't she privately expressed bewilderment, disappointment in this match? You deem your steadfastness noble? To many, kin included, it's stubborn folly! A calamity dragging you—and Rossi—down!"
"**Mother**?"
The word struck, cutting through her defensive anger. His continued vitriol blurred; only "mother," "bewilderment," "disappointment" echoed.
Fragments surfaced.
Sophia's performance post-board meeting—seemingly distraught yet stressing "shaken foundations." Earlier disdain toward Lorenzo. Her presence "tending flowers" during the "Phoenix" study briefing…
And… a nearly forgotten detail! The leaked "Phoenix" details included the **specific revised date** for severing "Aurora" ties. That date was **verbally adjusted** during the study discussion, **two weeks earlier** than the documents stated. Leval's poaching aligned with this **verbal revision**.
That revision occurred *only in the study*. Only Nonno, she, and Lorenzo knew. Paper drafts weren't updated.
If Lorenzo leaked, he'd have used the document date. He couldn't have leaked a verbal change heard only in that room.
Unless… someone listened outside the door.
A chilling realization coiled around her heart. Mother… outside… eavesdropping…
Alessandro continued, mocking, tempting: "Face reality. Leave him. I can mobilize Visconti resources to restore your position. Only I offer fitting support…"
Elisa no longer heard. Her face paled under the terrace lights. Her eyes sharpened, churning with shock, disbelief, and a clarifying, profound dread.
She looked at him, her gaze piercing through to a darker truth. Her voice was quiet, final.
"Are you concluded, Signor Visconti?"
He faltered.
"Your 'kindness' is noted. My path is mine. My husband, my trust. As for you…" Her lips curved coldly, almost pityingly. "…you'll never grasp that true trust and feeling aren't calculable currency."
Without a backward glance, she turned and left the terrace, abandoning the untouched wine, the furious man, and Milan's glittering pretense.
The night wind bit deeper. But colder was the dawning suspicion about her mother. The fortress of trust might not have been breached externally, but compromised from within, by kin left unguarded.
She needed Lorenzo now. Not for solace, but to confirm this freezing suspicion. Then… to confront, together, this venomous betrayal from her own family.