Warm light once again glowed from the second-floor windows of Costa Pasticceria.
Word of Lorenzo's discharge from the hospital spread through the small town faster than a summer wildfire. Maria Costa's irrepressible smile while shopping at Whole Foods, her cart conspicuously filled with convalescent supplies—organic chicken stock, soft brioche, and a small, exorbitantly priced crate of imported blood oranges ("Vitamin C is best for wound healing, Fred said so!")—said it all.
On the day of discharge, Gianluigi arrived to pick them up in his well-maintained but distinctly aged Ford F-150. Elisa had arranged for a more comfortable luxury SUV, but Maria had vetoed it firmly.
"Lorenzo needs to feel 'home,' not like he's in another mobile hospital ward," Maria declared, efficiently layering the truck's back seat with several soft old blankets and a down cushion from the guest room. "Besides, this truck is spacious; he can stretch his legs. Your car is too… formal."
Elisa looked at the makeshift nest in the back seat and didn't press further. She placed her own simple luggage—a few comfortable cashmere sweaters, jeans, a laptop, and a secure document case—in the passenger seat before carefully helping Lorenzo settle into the back. His left arm was now in a lighter, removable brace, but his face was still pale, his movements slow and stiff from his healing ribs.
Gianluigi started the engine, and the truck pulled away smoothly from the hospital. About half an hour into the drive, just as they turned onto the road leading into the Tuscan countryside, Maria turned around. "Tesoro," she said, her voice full of concern, "do you need to stop and rest? Would you like some water? Is the pillow height okay?"
A beat of silence hung in the cab.
"I'm fine, Mom," came Lorenzo's patient reply from the back, his voice carrying more life than it had in the hospital.
Maria turned her head slightly, a look of confusion on her face. "I wasn't asking you, Lorenzo." She swiveled fully back to look at Elisa in the passenger seat, her eyes softening into pools of tenderness. "I was asking Elisa. She must be exhausted, worrying over you and dealing with everything at the hospital. Elisa, really, don't push yourself. We can stop anytime."
In the rearview mirror, Lorenzo's expression went momentarily blank. A faint twitch touched the corner of his mouth before he lowered his gaze, wisely choosing silence.
In the passenger seat, Elisa was taken aback. But the slight awkwardness of being "mistaken" for the patient vanished instantly under the genuine warmth of Maria's concern. She could practically feel the wave of silent, self-deprecating resignation emanating from the back seat.
"I'm… I'm alright, Maria," Elisa said, her voice softer than usual. She gently patted Maria's hand resting on the seatback. "Really. The pillow is very comfortable." She was, in fact, using the down pillow clearly intended for Lorenzo.
"Good," Maria said, turning back around with satisfaction. But less than two minutes later, she pivoted again, this time offering a thermos. "Drink some of this. My own lemon, honey, and ginger tea. Excellent for fatigue. Lorenzo, yours is in the other cup, with extra honey."
Gianluigi shot a glance at his wife over the steering wheel, muttering under his breath, "Molly, speed limit signs aren't decorations. If you keep twisting around like that, we won't get home before dark."
"Gianluigi Costa! Safe driving includes passenger comfort!" Maria fired back, though her voice held laughter. "And I adjusted the mirrors perfectly; I don't need to turn around to see behind me—most of the time," she added meaningfully.
Lorenzo took his designated cup of tea in the back and murmured, low enough for only Elisa to hear, "Welcome to a Costa family road trip."
The note of wry humor and resigned warmth in his voice made Elisa lower her head to sip the warm ginger tea. The sweet, slightly spicy liquid soothed her throat and, unnoticed, a quiet corner of her heart.
**The "Patient" and the "Focus"**
Upon arrival, this "misplaced focus" mode of care was formally established and rapidly normalized.
"Straight upstairs, the bed is made. Gianluigi even sacrificed his best pillow—though I think it's hard as a rock…" Maria directed, simultaneously trying to take Elisa's small suitcase from her.
"I've got it, Maria. It's not heavy," Elisa demurred gently.
"Nonsense, you must be tired from the trip! Look at you!" Maria commandeered the suitcase with surprising speed. "Sofia! Come down and help! Bring the hot water bottle, yes, that one!"
Sofia Costa thundered down the stairs, indeed holding an old-fashioned rubber hot water bottle. "Mom, the doctor said not to use anything too hot…"
"It's warm! Just warm water to heat her feet after sitting so long!" Maria defended, steering Elisa toward the kitchen. "You sit down first. I made coffee, a new recipe with a bit of orange peel and cinnamon. Very invigorating…"
Thus, in this once-again lively and warm house, the nominal patient, Lorenzo, was properly settled to rest. But the bulk of the family's care and attention was unmistakably lavished on Elisa.
In the kitchen, Gianluigi was engaged in a "battle" with a brand-new, complex-looking espresso machine—a replacement Elisa had sent for the old one a few days prior.
"This thing has ten buttons!" Gianluigi grumbled, peering at the manual through his reading glasses. "I just want to make coffee, not launch a rocket!"
"Papà, that's the grind setting, that's the water temperature…" Sofia leaned in to help.
"I don't care what it is. My old machine, you just flipped a switch!" Gianluigi complained but carefully poured Maria's meticulously measured beans into the grinder.
Meanwhile, Maria had installed Elisa in the most comfortable chair at the kitchen table (with a newly replaced, down-filled cushion) and placed before her a cup of the aromatic coffee, followed immediately by a small plate of freshly baked, slightly caramelized almond biscotti. "Try these. Low sugar. I know you city people are particular. But you're too thin; you need healthy fats."
"Maria, I'm really not…" Elisa began to say she wasn't hungry.
"Just one!" Maria fixed her with a stare.
Elisa obliged, picking up a biscotto. It was crisp, rich with almond flavor, and indeed not too sweet.
"That's better!" Maria nodded in satisfaction and turned back to her tasks. "For dinner, we're having light osso buco. It's already simmering; I promise it will be fall-off-the-bone tender. And vegetable soup, Gianluigi picked the freshest from the garden… Oh, and your room is ready, right next to Lorenzo's. New sheets, 100% Egyptian cotton. I hear that's comfortable…"
"Mom," Lorenzo's voice came from the kitchen doorway where he leaned, having made his way slowly downstairs, a hint of exasperation in his tone. "*I'm* the one who's supposed to be resting."
"You?" Maria glanced over her shoulder, her hands never stopping as she chopped carrots. "You just need to lie down, take your medicine on time, and don't move around too much. Elisa is the one who needs to relax properly. She's been worrying too much lately." She refilled Elisa's coffee cup. "Look, the dark circles haven't even faded."
Lorenzo and Elisa exchanged a glance. He gave a slight shrug that said, *I'm used to it. You'll have to get used to it too.*
Elisa lowered her head to drink her coffee, a smile tugging at her lips. This kind of all-encompassing, even slightly "over-the-top" care was utterly unfamiliar to her, but not unpleasant. It was rough-edged, direct, and filled with the scent of food and unquestioning love.
**The Town's Scrutiny and Embrace**
News of Costa Pasticceria's reopening—and of Elisa Rossi's return—ignited San Gimignano's social scene like a match to dry tinder.
The next morning, before the shop officially opened, curious faces already peered through the windows. As soon as Gianluigi raised the blinds and hung the "Aperto" sign, the first wave of "customers" poured in.
"Maria! I heard Lorenzo is home! God bless!" Clara from the fruit stall was first, carrying a basket of cherries improbably plump for the season. "For his blood! And this is… oh, Signora Rossi! So good to see you again! You look well!"
Angela from the florist followed close behind with a bouquet in warm oranges and yellows. "For recovery! These will brighten any room. Elisa, this sunflower suits you perfectly!"
Then came Salvatore from the butcher shop (with his best braising beef), retired teacher Elma (with an old book on Tuscan herbal remedies), even the parish priest (with blessings and a small vial of holy water)…
Within an hour, the small bakery was packed. The air was a mélange of fresh bread, coffee, flowers, and lively, cheerful chatter. People had ostensibly come to buy bread and inquire about Lorenzo, but their eyes kept drifting toward Elisa, who sat quietly at a small round table in the corner, a slim laptop open before her.
She wore a simple cream-colored knit top and dark trousers, her hair loosely tied back, appearing far softer than the formidable figure from the finance magazine covers. She occasionally looked up to smile, nod, or exchange a few brief words with well-wishers, her demeanor neither aloof nor overly familiar, maintaining a comfortably respectful distance.
But the townsfolk were clearly unsatisfied. They created endless opportunities for "chance" encounters or conversation:
"Signora Rossi, my daughter is graduating from university soon. She's very interested in jewelry design. I wonder if you have any advice…"
"Elisa, that pearl care tip you mentioned last time was so helpful! Look, isn't my necklace much brighter?"
"My cousin runs a small gallery in Milan. He's fascinated by the story behind the 'Custodia' collection. I wonder if there's any chance…"
Maria, deftly serving customers, taking payment, and wrapping bread, kept a watchful, lioness-like eye on Elisa's corner. Whenever she felt someone was taking too much of Elisa's time or asking overly personal questions, she'd swiftly intervene:
"Carlo! Do you want that whole wheat loaf or not? It'll be gone soon!"
"Signora Elma, Lorenzo probably can't handle that herbal book yet. He took a knock to the head; he's still recovering!"
"Salvatore! Don't touch my new tablecloth with those greasy hands!"
Meanwhile, Gianluigi worked behind the counter, kneading a large mound of dough, listening to his wife "manage" the room. He occasionally exchanged a knowing look with an old regular, a simple, proud smile on his face.
Lorenzo spent most of his time resting upstairs. In the afternoons, when he felt better, he'd slowly make his way down to sit in the old armchair near the kitchen door, reviewing emails or reading. From there, he could observe the bustle below, see Elisa enveloped by the town's well-meaning attention. She didn't seem ill at ease. Instead, there was a strange sense of fitting in—not as a regal queen, but as a member of the Costa family, undergoing the town's unique, fervent form of inspection and acceptance.
Once, he watched as a group of young local girls surrounded Elisa, eagerly asking about Milan Fashion Week. Elisa answered patiently, even sketching a simple, wearable earring design on a napkin, eliciting soft gasps of delight. The afternoon sun caught her profile and golden hair, and a faint, genuine smile touched her lips.
Lorenzo watched for a long moment until Maria approached with a cup of herbal tea ("For bone healing. The taste might be odd, but you must drink it!"), blocking his view.
"What are you staring at?" Maria handed him the cup, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "Worried your wife can't handle it?"
Lorenzo took the warm cup, not denying it. "She's adapting better than I expected."
"She's a good girl," Maria stated firmly, patting his shoulder (avoiding the injury). "Strong, smart, warm-hearted. Just wound too tight. This place is good for her. Lets her unwind."
With that, she bustled back downstairs to "rescue" Elisa, who seemed on the verge of being asked about her childhood dreams.
**Undercurrents Beneath the Calm**
Beneath these warm, noisy, even comical routines, Elisa never fully lowered her guard. She spent fixed hours each day at her laptop, communicating via encrypted channels with Anna.
Yet the communication was restrained. On one hand, she didn't want frequent contact to betray her exact location or state (though the town's buzz had likely already informed certain parties). On the other, the information Anna relayed, after filtering, seemed stable, even… overly placid.
"Group daily operations maintained by the interim committee. Generally stable."
"Director Marco reiterated his proposal for enhanced financial review in several meetings but lacked broad support."
"Signora Sofia has been socially active lately, lunching with several figures from the fashion industry."
"No new movements from Banca Visconti."
"The internal investigation regarding the leak… no substantive progress to report."
It was like the sea after a storm, with only the faintest ripples. No good news, but no worse news either. This very calmness made Elisa frown slightly. She knew her adversaries—both within the family and without. Silence often meant brewing.
One afternoon, she and Lorenzo were on the small second-floor balcony, enjoying a rare moment of quiet. He wore a loose sweater, reclining in a lounger, his left arm brace set aside. She sat in a wicker chair nearby, looking at Anna's concise update on her laptop screen.
"Too quiet," she murmured, almost to herself.
Lorenzo's gaze lifted from an old book on Renaissance jewelry trade he was holding. "The calm before the storm?"
"Or it's already raining, just out of my sight," Elisa said, closing the laptop and rubbing her temples. "By leaving Milan, leaving the center of power, I've voluntarily vacated the battlefield. They won't waste the opportunity."
"Do you want to go back?" Lorenzo asked, his tone even.
Elisa was silent for a moment. Her eyes swept over his still-pale face and his less-than-agile left arm before she shook her head, her voice firm. "Not yet. You need to fully recover. And… here, we're not entirely without resources." She glanced toward the faint sounds of laughter from the bakery below. "The Costas, this town—they're our rear guard now, and our cover. Some things can't be done under a spotlight."
Lorenzo understood. She was waiting, gathering strength, while also using this relatively "invisible" time to observe and strategize from a different angle.
"What do you need me to do?" he asked directly. Though physically recovering, his mind remained sharp.
Elisa turned to him. The twilight gilded her profile, her gaze sharp and clear. "First, get better. Fully. Then," she paused, "help me remember everything. Every unusual detail around the time of the 'Fenix' leak, anyone acting out of character, no matter how slight. Your memory is the best map we have without new evidence."
Lorenzo nodded, asking no further questions. "Alright."
Downstairs, Maria's robust voice pierced through the floorboards: "Elisa! Lorenzo! Come down and try my 'recovery-friendly' tiramisu! I used low-fat mascarpone and sugar substitute, completely healthy! Gianluigi, don't you dare touch Lorenzo's portion!"
The two exchanged a smile—one of understanding,and shared resolve to face the unknown storm ahead.
Elisa stood, picking up the light blanket beside Lorenzo as she did. "Come on, 'patient.' Your mother's healthy dessert is calling."
They descended the stairs together, merging into the warm, noisy glow below, filled with the scent of baking bread and the vibrant hum of everyday life.
Far away in Milan, in an office on the top floor of the Rossi Group building, a proposal to adjust European market strategy—involving cuts to some traditional line investments—was being quietly slipped into the pre-meeting documents for the interim management committee. In the space for secondary signatures was an inconspicuous yet telling set of initials. Neon lights began to flicker on across the city, reflecting coldly in the glass towers, unable to illuminate the schemes quietly taking root in the shadows.
The night in San Gimignano, however, was filled with the bakery's warm light, the aroma of simmering stew, and the lively chatter of the Costa family dinner—a warm, secluded cocoon, seemingly worlds apart.