That night, the moonlight over Milan was a sickly white, like aged parchment, clinging weakly to the high window frame of Elisa's bedroom.
She wasn't asleep. How could she be? Sunk into the overly soft duvet, her body felt as if it were lying on a riverbed of jagged stones, every bone aching. In her mind, a whole construction crew seemed to be pounding against the walls—thud, thud, thud—an endless rhythm. Alessandro's venomous words, like barbed hooks, had dug deep into her flesh; each breath now tore at the wounds. But what truly froze her blood wasn't those direct attacks. It was the dark, fragmented shadow of her own mother taking shape in her thoughts.
Eyes wide open, she stared at the intricate plaster patterns on the ceiling. In the dark, the entwined roses and vines twisted into menacing claws. Her thoughts, like wild horses broken free from their reins, galloped uncontrollably back to every detail following the "Phoenix" plan leak.
Her mother Sophia's face at the board meeting, etched with "heartbreak" and "righteousness"—recalled now, every slight muscle movement reeked of exaggerated performance. Why had she repeatedly emphasized "shaking the foundations"? Was it truly out of shareholder duty? Or... was she deepening everyone's fear, cementing the severity of the leak to sharpen the spearhead against an "outsider"?
And earlier? Her mother's deep-seated, bone-chilling coldness toward Lorenzo, the contempt as if looking at him for a second longer would soil her eyes, those seemingly casual yet razor-sharp "reminders" during family dinners... All the details Elisa had once deliberately ignored or blamed on her mother's inherently critical nature now sprang to life, glowing with ominous light.
And that date—the termination date with Aurora! Elisa bolted upright in bed, her heart hammering against her ribs. She stood barefoot on the carpet, a chill shooting from her soles to the crown of her head. She remembered with crystal clarity: in the study, reporting to her grandfather, Lorenzo had mentioned market intelligence suggesting internal turbulence at Aurora. He'd advised moving the termination date up from next March to mid-December this year to avoid being caught off guard. She'd agreed on the spot. Her grandfather had nodded. This change was agreed verbally! The paper version of the plan hadn't been updated yet; the electronic version would follow later in the process!
But Lafer's poaching of Aurora's core team was timed perfectly for that **verbally revised mid-December** window! The precision was terrifying.
If Lorenzo was the leak, working from the document version he'd accessed, the date should have been **next March**. How could he possibly leak a temporary, unwritten timepoint mentioned only in a conversation between three people?
Unless... the leak source had been there, listening in person.
The faint, almost imperceptible shadow of her mother "pruning the plants" outside the heavy study door... the figure "just happening" to pass by with a water glass... Elisa hugged her arms, nails digging deep into her flesh, but she felt no pain. Only an icy dread crept up from the base of her spine, instantly freezing her limbs.
Her mother? Could it really be? For what? Years of accumulated resentment? To push that hopeless fool Massimo into the spotlight? Even at the cost of destroying the group's core plan and pulling her own daughter down?
The suspicion was too insane, too cruel. It seared her heart like a red-hot brand, sizzling, emitting the acrid smell of despair. She didn't want to believe it. But every fragment was screaming, pointing in that direction. For the first time, a crack had appeared in the fortress of her trust, emanating from her own flesh and blood. This felt more isolating, more chilling, than any external attack.
She grabbed her phone. The screen light stabbed her eyes. 3:27 AM. Lorenzo's name lay quietly in her contacts. She wanted to call him, to hear his steady voice immediately, to draw strength from his rock-solid calm. More than that, she wanted to confirm her suspicion—had he noticed anything too? About that date? About her mother's unusual behavior?
But her finger hovered over the call button, never pressing down. Where was he now? In San Gimignano? Or at some temporary place he'd found? After the expulsion and slander of the day, he needed rest, a moment of peace. And some words, some suspicions, couldn't be conveyed clearly over a cold electronic line. She needed to see his eyes.
She sent him a brief text: *"Tomorrow, 10 AM. The usual place. Important. About the leak."* "The usual place" was their unspoken code: the bench near the swan lake in Milan's Central Park. Quiet, open, hard to surveil.
After sending it, she lay back down, but sleep was impossible. Her eyes burned dryly, yet her mind boiled like a pot of water, roiling with her mother's cold glances, Alessandro's sneers, her grandfather's disappointed, furious face, the greedy or stupid faces at the board meeting... and Lorenzo's calm, heartbreakingly painful retreat from the conference room.
As dawn approached, she drifted into a fitful, nightmare-ridden half-sleep. She dreamed of her mother tearing the "Phoenix" blueprints to shreds, throwing them into a fire, her face reflected in the flames, laughing wildly. She dreamed of Lorenzo walking away into a thick fog, never turning back no matter how she called. She dreamed of Alessandro in elegant formalwear, holding a dripping dagger, smiling gracefully...
Under nearly the same night sky, on the penthouse terrace of a luxurious Visconti family apartment across the city, Alessandro was also wide awake.
Dressed in a silk robe, he stood overlooking the Duomo's spires, holding not a glass of wine, but ice water. The cold liquid slid down his throat but did nothing to quench the toxic fire burning in his chest. Elisa's icy, resolute face, her words defending Lorenzo Costa—each one sharp as a blade—replayed in his mind.
*"...the clearest and least regrettable decision I've ever made..."*
*"...he possesses the most precious qualities: honesty, resilience, clarity..."*
*"...I trust him as much as I trust the sun will rise tomorrow..."*
Every word was a poisoned needle, pricking his most sensitive nerves. Twenty years of waiting, cautious approaches, self-assured understanding and control—all seemed ludicrous, cheap, in the face of her unreasonable, almost blind trust in another man. Alessandro Visconti, who had gotten everything he ever wanted since childhood, had never been humiliated like this. And by a woman he considered all but his!
What fueled his rage further was her line: *"Your 'support' comes at too high a price. I can't pay it, and I don't want to!"* —She saw his help, the power of the Visconti family, as something to be wary of, to distance herself from? While she treasured the so-called "warmth" that country bumpkin brought?
Jealousy, resentment, the fury of being utterly scorned, and a sliver of panic—the fear of a plan spiraling out of control, which he himself refused to acknowledge—coalesced into a cold desire for destruction. Since gentle tactics, patient waiting, even this heaven-sent opportunity couldn't make her turn back, couldn't make her see who was truly worthy of her... then...
Perhaps it was time for a different approach.
Let her lose all her support. Let her taste betrayal and despair to the fullest. Let that proud head of hers be forced to bow. Only then would she understand who her one and only true salvation was.
And that eyesore, Costa, was the first and most crucial stumbling block to be crushed on that path. Simply being expelled from Rossi wasn't enough. Far from it. He needed to disappear more completely, more... wretchedly, more disgracefully. He had to make Elisa associate him with failure, shame, and danger, so she would sever that ridiculous attachment herself.
A darker, more radical plan began to take shape in his mind. He wouldn't dirty his own hands. The world was full of hyenas willing to do anything for money. Costa, abandoned by Rossi, was isolated and vulnerable—the perfect time. Arrange an "accident"? One that would physically remove him from Elisa's world, or at least leave permanent scars and stains?
Alessandro walked back to his study and opened his laptop. The screen's cold light illuminated his handsome, expressionless face. His grey-blue eyes held no warmth, only precise calculation. He began browsing "service" forums hidden in the internet's depths, accessible only with specific code words. His fingers tapped the keyboard quickly, producing a monotonous, rhythmic click, like the second hand of death ticking.
He meticulously recalled the details his assistant had reported that day—the online traces and location information Costa had been "guided" to discover. He pondered how to leverage these "coincidences" to the extreme, how to make an "accident" look more like "retribution" or a "warning" triggered by his own involvement in trouble, completely absolving the Viscontis.
Outside, the sky began to lighten to a dull grey. The city stirred awake. Alessandro finally closed the laptop and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. Despite the sleepless night, he showed little fatigue, only a near-cruel calm and resolve. He walked to the liquor cabinet, poured a glass of strong liquor this time, and downed it in one go. The alcohol burned his stomach and incinerated the last flicker of hesitation in his eyes.
"You brought this on yourself, Elisa," he said soundlessly to the brightening sky.
The next morning, the weather was oppressively gloomy. Thick, leaden clouds hung low, threatening to collapse onto the city. The air was heavy and damp, windless. Even the trees lining the streets drooped listlessly.
Elisa arrived at Central Park twenty minutes early. Dressed in an inconspicuous beige trench coat, sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed hat, she tried to avoid drawing attention. The swan lake was quieter than usual. A few swans floated listlessly on the water, barely making ripples. She sat on the familiar bench, fingers unconsciously tracing the rough grain of the wooden slats.
Her heart beat a little too fast—not because of a meeting, but because of the terrifying suspicion she was about to share and the potentially more brutal truth that might follow. She kept glancing toward the park entrance, then down at her watch.
9:55 AM. Lorenzo was always punctual, often a few minutes early. He should be here soon.
She ran through what she needed to tell him: the questionable date, her mother's various anomalies, the information Alessandro had revealed last night (despite his ulterior motives)... She needed his analysis, his cool head, to help her untangle this mess, or to face the heartbreaking possibility together.
Minutes ticked by.
10:00 AM. Only sparse figures at the entrance. No sign of the familiar, tall, steady presence.
10:05 AM. A thread of unease began to weave through her. She checked her phone. No missed calls, no new messages. This wasn't like him. If Lorenzo were late, he'd notify her.
10:10 AM. She couldn't resist calling his number. After a long series of rings, it went to a cold, automated voicemail. *"The number you have dialed is currently unavailable..."*
A sense of foreboding, like ink spreading silently across water, began to stain her heart. She hung up and tried again. Still no answer.
10:20 AM. Anxiety coiled around her throat like a vine. She called the house in San Gimignano. Maria answered, the usual bustle of the bakery in the background.
"Lorenzo? He drove back to Milan first thing this morning! Said he was meeting you. Should've been there by now. What's wrong, Elisa? You sound..." Maria's concerned voice came through.
"He... hasn't arrived," Elisa managed, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Maybe something came up on the road. Mama, if he contacts home, please tell me immediately."
Hanging up, the foreboding grew stronger, more suffocating. Lorenzo wasn't the type to miss a meeting without reason, let alone not answer his phone. The highway from San Gimignano to Milan... Car trouble? But why wouldn't the phone work?
She couldn't sit still. She stood up, pacing back and forth in front of the bench, eyes fixed on the entrance. The gloomy sky finally began to release a cold, fine drizzle, needling her face. The last few people in the park hurried away.
10:40 AM. Her phone rang sharply—an unfamiliar landline number with an area code from the Milan suburbs.
Her heart clenched violently. She answered, her hand trembling.
"May I speak to Elisa Rossi?" A strange, officious male voice, background noise slightly chaotic.
"This is she. Who is this?"
"This is the Emergency Center at Milan Northern District Hospital Three. We've just admitted an injured individual named Lorenzo Costa, involved in a serious car accident on his way to Milan. We found a card with your contact information among his personal effects. Please come immediately."
The receiver slipped from Elisa's hand, falling onto the damp grass with a muted thud. The world instantly lost all color and sound. Only those icy words—"serious car accident"—echoed, magnified endlessly in her ears.
The rain began to fall harder.