The corridor of Milan's Northern Third Hospital was thick with the unique scent of disinfectant mingled with despair. It was 11:05 AM, barely half an hour since that chilling phone call. Elisa had all but burst into the emergency center, the hem of her trench coat damp with rain and flecked with mud, her hair plastered to her pale cheeks. Any concern for appearances was long gone. Her sunglasses, clenched in one hand, dug into her palm, leaving deep indentations.
"Where is Lorenzo Costa?" Her voice was ragged, yet her gaze was sharp as a blade, sweeping over the startled face of the nurse at the reception desk.
After verifying the information, she was directed to a private observation room near the ICU. The nurse leading the way spoke rapidly, her tone professionally soothing. "Mr. Costa is fortunate. Though the impact was severe, the vehicle's safety features performed well—all airbags deployed. The main injuries are two cracked ribs on the left side, a fractured ulna in his left arm, a moderate concussion from the head impact, and multiple soft tissue contusions… There's no major internal bleeding or life-threatening intracranial injury. Initial treatment is complete, and he'll need to be hospitalized for observation for at least a week."
*No life-threatening danger.* The tension that had stretched Elisa's nerves to their breaking point snapped. A wave of weakness hit her, her legs nearly buckling. She braced herself against the cold wall, drawing several deep breaths of the medicine-tinged air, forcing herself to stand steady.
*Fortunate?* The word felt like a thorn, pricking her newly eased heartbeat. A "fortunate," non-fatal car crash, right when Lorenzo had been slandered, exiled, and was on his way to meet her?
The door to the room was ajar. She stepped inside.
Lorenzo lay on the bed by the window, his left arm in a cast suspended before his chest. Gauze covered his forehead and cheek, the exposed skin a tapestry of bruises and abrasions. His eyes were closed, his face as pale as the sheets, but his chest rose and fell with steady breaths. The heart monitor beside the bed emitted a calm, rhythmic beep, green lines dancing across the screen. A young resident was recording data.
Seeing Elisa, the doctor gave a nod and explained quietly, "The patient has a concussion. He needs rest, avoiding emotional excitement and bright light. The anesthesia hasn't fully worn off; he may be drowsy for a while. The fracture surgery is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, once the swelling subsides a bit."
Elisa didn't respond. Her eyes were locked on Lorenzo's face. Those wounds, that fragile helplessness, felt like a red-hot blunt knife sawing back and forth across her heart. Rage—a violent fury toward the shadowy perpetrators; worry—a visceral empathy for his every pang of pain; and deeper still, a cold, almost terrifying resolve—she *must* find whoever did this, she *must* protect him, at any cost.
She walked softly to the bedside but didn't sit. She just stood there, looking down at his sleeping face. Her fingers curled and uncurled at her sides. Finally, she reached out, her fingertips barely grazing the back of his uninjured right hand—cold, but carrying the faint warmth of blood flowing beneath the skin.
"I'm here," she breathed, the words almost inaudible, like an incantation, or more truly, a vow.
Then she turned. All vulnerability and anger vanished from her face, replaced by a nearly icy calm. She addressed the doctor, "Please give me the contact information for the attending physician. Furthermore, starting now, no visitors are allowed in this room except those on a list I will provide. This includes anyone claiming to be from the Rossi Group or the Costa family, unless I confirm it personally. Regarding hospital security, if additional expenses are required, I will cover them."
The doctor looked momentarily taken aback, but meeting her expressionless gaze, he nodded.
Elisa walked to the end of the hallway outside the room and took out her phone. Her first call was to Anna, her voice frighteningly composed. "Anna, Lorenzo has been in a car accident. He's at Milan Northern Third Hospital. No life-threatening injuries, but he requires hospitalization. Immediately contact the best orthopedic and neurosurgical specialists in Milan. I want a second opinion, and I want them involved in the treatment team. Cost is not a concern."
After hanging up with Anna, she hesitated for a second before dialing the number for San Gimignano. Maria answered, the familiar bakery bustle in the background, her voice tinged with urgency. "Elisa? Has Lorenzo arrived? Have you met?"
"Maria," Elisa interrupted, her tone softening slightly but still taut. "Listen. Lorenzo… was in a car accident on his way to Milan. He's in the hospital now."
A short gasp came through the phone, followed by Gianluigi's anxious questioning in the background.
"He's alright, no life-threatening danger," Elisa said quickly. "But he has broken ribs and a fractured arm, a concussion. He needs to be hospitalized. Would you… would you be willing to come to Milan? If so, I'll arrange a car. We need people here, and…" She paused. "I don't think he's safe. Someone may be trying to harm him."
She said the last part softly, but it was enough to bring a sudden silence on the other end. Then came Maria's voice, choked with tears yet unwaveringly firm: "We're coming! We're leaving now! Gianluigi, close up! Sofia, Giulio, pack some things! Elisa, send the address. We'll drive ourselves; it's faster. Wait for us!"
Elisa's eyes grew hot. She didn't say thank you, merely replied softly, "Alright. Drive safely. Call me when you arrive; I'll come down to meet you."
Over the next few hours, Elisa booked two adjacent suites at a high-security hotel near the hospital—one for the Costa family, one as her own temporary base. Through Anna, she obtained a copy of the police's preliminary accident report: the crash occurred on a curve of an intercity highway. The other vehicle was an old van with stolen plates; the driver had fled the scene. No clear surveillance footage was available. Lorenzo's car had been violently struck from the side/rear, causing him to lose control and hit the guardrail. The report's conclusion stated, "High probability of a hit-and-run due to wet road conditions," advising the family to await further investigation.
She returned to the room. Lorenzo still hadn't woken. She sat in the chair by the bed, finally allowing a trace of exhaustion to show. The rain continued outside, the sky gloomy. Watching his face, her mind was unusually clear amidst the monotonous beeping of the monitor.
*This was no accident. A warning? Or an attempt to make him disappear? If the latter, why did the method seem… 'restrained'? Limited capability? Or… not wanting to cause a death, to avoid drawing excessive police and media attention that might expose them?*
*Sofia?* She had motive to remove Lorenzo permanently, but did the risk of outright murder align with her usual style of calculation hidden behind elegance? *Alessandro?* Spurned and humiliated, he had the resources and motive to make Lorenzo "disappear." *Uncle Marco or others within the Group who saw Lorenzo as a thorn in their side? Carlo?*
The suspicions swirled. But one thing was certain: Lorenzo was isolated and vulnerable now. And she, Elisa Rossi, despite her suspension, was still a member of the Rossi family, possessing resources and… an intangible deterrence that outsiders could scarcely imagine. As long as she was here, unwavering.
A decision solidified within her.
Around 3 PM, the Costa family arrived. Maria's eyes were red-rimmed. She rushed to the bedside, her hands hovering, wanting to touch but afraid to, covering her mouth as silent tears fell. Gianluigi stood behind his wife, the tough man's eyes also red, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked, muttering, "How could this happen… how…" Sofia (the sister) and Giulio stood by, pale and frightened.
Elisa stood up and briefly explained the injuries and the doctor's assessment. Then, looking at them, her voice clear and firm, she said, "Dad, Mom, Sofia, Giulio. There's something I must tell you. Lorenzo's accident… likely wasn't an accident."
Maria drew a sharp, frightened breath, her eyes wide on Elisa.
"I've made… enemies within the Group. Someone attacked me using dishonorable means. Lorenzo got caught in it trying to protect me. Now he's a target." She selectively revealed part of the truth—enough to make them vigilant without causing excessive panic. "Until I find out who and ensure safety, nowhere is truly safe for Lorenzo. The hospital, being a public place with surveillance and staff, is relatively better. But he must have absolutely trusted people watching him at all times."
"We'll watch him!" Maria said immediately, grasping Elisa's hand—her grip rough but remarkably strong. "We'll take shifts! Twenty-four hours, not a moment alone!"
Gianluigi nodded heavily, his expression fierce. "Let's see what bastard dares to try anything again!"
"So," Elisa said, returning Maria's grip, her gaze sweeping over each of them, "I need your help. We'll care for him together. But more importantly, we must be extra vigilant. Anyone unfamiliar trying to approach the room, any suspicious calls or inquiries—tell me immediately. You must also be careful yourselves."
This was the first time Elisa had so explicitly brought the Costa family into her "front line," entrusting them with the crucial duty of guardians. Not shielding them from danger, but facing it together as family. This realization brought fresh tears to Maria's eyes, but now they were mixed with worry, moved emotion, and the searing warmth of being fully trusted.
"Don't you worry, dear," Maria whispered, her voice choked, squeezing Elisa's hand firmly. "With us here, no one will harm a single hair on Lorenzo's head."
In the days that followed, the hospital room became a small, warm fortress.
Elisa practically moved into the hospital. She handled essential matters remotely from her hotel room (via Anna and encrypted channels), spending the rest of her time in the room. She paid the hospital a premium for additional privacy and security measures and, with the doctor's consent, set up a temporary workspace in one corner with her laptop and necessary files. She even strategically "leaked" news of Lorenzo's accident to a few trusted media outlets through Anna, wording it carefully to express gratitude to the medical staff and concern about the incident, framing it within the scope of an "unfortunate traffic accident." This calculated publicity placed Lorenzo on the periphery of public attention, creating a constraint that might deter further direct physical attacks from hidden adversaries.
Maria and Gianluigi took on the main duties of daily care and "sentry" duty. Maria brought homemade soups and meals, insisting on feeding Lorenzo herself (once he could eat), carefully planning each meal according to her "nutritional healing" philosophy. Gianluigi sat like a silent sentinel by the door most of the time, his eyes sharp, scrutinizing every passerby, even the cleaning staff. Sofia and Giulio took turns visiting after school, bringing news and stories from home, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere.
Lorenzo underwent successful surgery for his arm fracture the next afternoon. The post-anesthesia pain was tough, and the concussion caused frequent dizziness and nausea. Yet he remained unusually quiet. Even at his worst, he only pressed his lips together, a fine sweat beading on his forehead, rarely groaning. Only when Elisa or family members were near did the tension in his brow ease slightly.
His periods of lucidity gradually increased. The first time he was truly awake, seeing Elisa and his tearful mother by his bedside, his eyes held a moment of confusion before clearing into sharp focus. He didn't ask "Why am I here?" or "What happened?" Instead, he looked directly at Elisa, his voice weak and hoarse but carrying unmistakable seriousness: "You… are you alright?"
Elisa's heart clenched. She leaned in, taking his uninjured hand, shaking her head. "I'm fine. But you…" Her voice caught. "They were after *you*."
Lorenzo closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, they held a calm, deep resolve. "The accident report?"
"Police preliminary conclusion is a wet-weather hit-and-run, under investigation," Elisa said succinctly. "Did you see anything unusual? Sense anything?"
Lorenzo frowned, his concussion making memory fuzzy. "The curve… headlights behind, suddenly very close, fast… impact… then lost control." He paused. "That car… seemed to have been following for a while."
Elisa's eyes turned colder. *Premeditated tailing, striking on a curve—a classic "accident" setup.*
"Don't rush," Lorenzo said suddenly, his grip on her hand tightening slightly, weak but insistent. "If they orchestrated this, they won't have left obvious evidence for the police. You're suspended now… you need to be even more careful."
"That's exactly why I'm here," Elisa said, her gaze steady on him. "My presence is a statement. They'll have to think twice."
Their eyes met. No more words were needed. Each understood the other's situation and determination. Trust flowed silently in the quiet room, stronger than any declaration.
Amidst the scent of antiseptic, homemade broth, and taut vigilance, something else grew quietly by the sickbed.
Elisa learned how to carefully adjust Lorenzo's position to ease the pain in his ribs, how to moisten his chapped lips with a damp cotton swab. In the deep quiet of night, when pain kept him awake, she would sit by the bed and read snippets of inconsequential financial reports or art reviews in a low, steady voice until his breathing evened out again.
Once, under the influence of medication, Lorenzo stirred restlessly in his sleep, perhaps from pain or a nightmare. Almost instinctively, Elisa leaned over, gently encircling his uninjured right shoulder with one arm, her other hand patting his back with the lightest touch, as if soothing a child. Her cheek was close to his temple, close enough to catch his own familiar, comforting scent beneath the smells of hospital and blood. In that moment, there was no CEO, no archivist—just a woman watching over her wounded partner.
When Lorenzo woke, he found her hand still resting on his shoulder. He didn't move, only turned his head slightly to look at her profile as she dozed in the chair, shadows of fatigue under her eyes. He raised his good right hand, slowly, incredibly gently, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The movement was as careful as if handling the most fragile treasure.
These subtle interactions did not escape Maria's notice when she occasionally entered. The mother said nothing, only turned away to wipe her eyes, then went to prepare more nourishing broth, ensuring the room's one comfortable armchair was always reserved for Elisa.
The storm raged outside the window, but within this sanctuary, the roots of a rose were digging deeper, holding tighter in the dark soil. Holding Lorenzo's gradually warming hand, watching the life the Costa family brought into the room with their bustling care, the blueprint for counterattack took shape in Elisa's mind—stroke by stroke, drawn with cold clarity amidst waiting and guarding. She knew the police investigation might yield nothing. She knew the adversary waited in the shadows. But she knew something else more profoundly: some wars are not won by immediate, tangible evidence, but by who holds their ground with greater patience, who possesses the more unshakable alliance, and the more unwavering resolve to never retreat.
She was ready.