Dawn in San Gimignano was roused by the scent of baking bread and birdsong.
Elisa had just handed a glass of fresh orange juice to Lorenzo, who leaned against the kitchen doorframe. The brace on his left arm was gone, his color much improved, though his ribs still needed care. Maria hummed by the stove, stirring a large pot of oatmeal. Gianluigi pulled a golden, crisp-crusted focaccia from the oven. Everything was steeped in warm, peaceful quiet.
Then Elisa's phone, left on the kitchen table, rang. Not her usual encrypted work line, but the landline number from her Milan apartment.
An icy premonition seized her instantly. Very few people had that number.
She walked over and picked it up. The screen showed "Milan Apartment." She answered. "Yes?"
It was Luigi, the majordomo who had served the Rossis for thirty years. His voice trembled with barely contained panic. "Miss… Miss Elisa… You must come back at once! Immediately! A disaster!"
Her heart plummeted. "Luigi, calm down. Explain clearly. What's happened?"
"The police… court officials… bankers… they descended on Group headquarters this morning, and the estate! They're seizing everything! Freezing all accounts! Taking documents! The Chairman… the Chairman collapsed when he heard! He's been rushed to the hospital! Mr. Andrea… Mr. Andrea has been taken by the police! They say it's massive fraud, illegal asset transfers! The Signora and the young master… they… they…"
Luigi's voice broke, his words tumbling out in a chaotic stream, but each one was like an ice-cold nail hammered into Elisa's mind.
The company was gone. The home was being raided. Her grandfather was in emergency care. Her father was under arrest.
The ground vanished beneath her feet.
"I'm on my way." Her voice was unnaturally calm, a calm that felt alien even to her. She hung up.
The cozy morning atmosphere in the kitchen froze solid. Maria stood rigid, wooden spoon in hand. Gianluigi held the hot baking tray, forgetting to set it down. Lorenzo straightened, his gaze locked on Elisa's face, which had drained of all color.
"Elisa?" Lorenzo's voice pulled her back from the icy suffocation.
She looked up, her eyes sharp as ice blades, but with an unshakable resolve beneath. "There's trouble in Milan. The Group and the estate have been seized. Assets are frozen. Nonno is in critical condition. My father has been arrested. I have to go back. Now."
"What?!" Maria gasped, the spoon clattering into the pot.
"Dio mio…" Gianluigi murmured.
Lorenzo was already beside her, ignoring the twinge in his ribs, taking her cold hand. "I'm coming with you."
"No." Elisa pulled her hand back instantly. "Your injuries aren't healed. You need rest. This is my family's trouble. I'll handle it alone."
"Elisa Rossi," Lorenzo's voice was low and firm, his grip not relenting. "Look at me. Do you think, after all this, I'd let you walk back into that mess alone?" His grey-green eyes held no doubt. "And what you need right now isn't just someone who can walk. You need a clear head. My ribs don't stop me from thinking."
"Lorenzo's right!" Maria sprang into action, wiping her hands decisively on her apron. "You must let him come! How can you manage alone? Gianluigi! Get the car! We'll drive them to Milan ourselves! We can help on the way!"
"Maria, that's not necessary, we can—" Elisa tried to protest.
"No 'not necessary'!" Maria's voice rose with maternal authority. "You're family! When family is in trouble, do we hide in the bakery and pretend nothing's wrong? Gianluigi! Don't just stand there! Check the petrol! Giulio! Down here, help pack!"
The small kitchen erupted into a flurry of purposeful, if frantic, activity. Maria took command. Gianluigi rushed out to check his pickup truck. Giulio clattered down the stairs and, though confused, immediately began helping pack a few essentials.
Elisa watched the Costa family move around her, saw Lorenzo standing firmly by her side, the warmth of his hand steady against hers. A crack appeared in her cold, hard armor. A hot, bitter surge rose behind her eyes, forcefully suppressed. Now was not the time for weakness.
Gianluigi drove fast and steady, the pickup eating up the miles of Tuscan highway. The cab was intensely quiet, filled only by the engine's growl. Maria sat in the passenger seat, turning often to cast worried glances at Elisa in the back. Lorenzo kept his hand lightly over Elisa's tightly clenched fist.
Elisa's phone vibrated incessantly—missed calls and messages from Anna, Caterina, key executives, and family lawyers crowded the screen. She didn't respond immediately, using the blurring landscape to force calm, piecing together fragmented information. The names Sophia and Massimo surfaced repeatedly in Luigi's garbled account and the lawyers' terse updates. Connecting them to the Phoenix leak and Lorenzo's accident, a terrifying picture began to form in her mind—with her own family at its ugly center.
They reached Milan as dusk approached. The city glittered as always, but the Rossi Group headquarters was surrounded by police cars, media vans, and onlookers. Flashing blue and red lights painted the cold glass façade in garish hues. They didn't stop, heading straight for the Rossi estate in the city's historic center.
The scene at the estate was more heartbreaking. The once-elegant wrought-iron gates stood open. Bailiffs and court officers were posting seals and notices on the entrance. Moving vans idled on the drive. Under the watchful eyes of uniformed officials, staff were loading simple furniture and personal belongings not on the seizure list. The ordered, stately home now exuded the desolation of a fallen dynasty.
Elisa got out of the car, Lorenzo right behind her. Maria and Gianluigi stayed in the vehicle, watching anxiously.
She saw Sophia as soon as she reached the gate.
Her mother—always impeccably coiffed, dressed, poised—stood disheveled beside a moving van. Her hair was a mess, her face streaked with tears, wearing a crumpled silk robe. She clutched a bulging suitcase, staring vacantly at the main doors being sealed. Beside her stood a pale, panicked Massimo, yelling incoherently at a man who seemed to be the moving foreman. "Those are my limited-edition sneakers! You can't take them! And my console! It's personal property!"
The foreman pointed expressionlessly to his checklist.
"Mom! Make them give it back!" Massimo shook Sophia's arm like a child denied a toy.
Sophia stumbled under his grip, nearly dropping the suitcase, her eyes still blank. "Gone… all gone… Karl wants a divorce… the house is sealed… nothing left…"
Then Sophia saw Elisa approaching.
Her eyes snapped into focus—seeing a lifeline, a judge, a mix of despair, shame, and a twisted, instinctive urge to deflect. She let go of the suitcase, staggered forward, and grabbed Elisa's arm, nails digging in. "Elisa! You're back! You have to do something! They've gone mad! They're throwing us out! It's our home! Your father… your grandfather… they…"
"Let go." Elisa's voice was Siberian cold. She wrenched her arm free with such force that Sophia stumbled back.
Elisa's gaze swept like a scanner over her mother's tear-streaked, ruined face, to her brother still screaming about a game console, over the sealed doors and the indifferent officials. Rage—at the stupidity, the greed, the betrayal—roared in her chest, threatening to incinerate reason. She wanted to demand, to shout, to tear apart the two who had destroyed a century's work, felled her grandfather, and sent her father to jail.
Then a hand settled gently on her shoulder. Lorenzo. He stood beside her, silent, his steady presence and the warmth of his touch a temporary dam against her flood of emotion.
"Steady, Elisa," he murmured, for her ears only. "Not now. No matter what…" He paused, his gaze taking in the trembling, terrified figures of Sophia and Massimo, his tone complex but clear. "…they're still your family."
The words doused the fiercest flames of her anger, leaving heavier, colder ash and exhaustion. *Family*. How ironic. It was these two "family" members who had plunged the dynasty into ruin.
Sophia heard Lorenzo. Clinging to this last straw, she looked tearfully at him, then at Elisa, sobbing. "Elisa… Mama was wrong… Mama was tricked… It was Karl, Alessandro, and that Carlo… they deceived us… Massimo was led astray… We have nowhere to go… You can't abandon us…" She wept almost hysterically, none of her usual cold pride remaining.
Massimo stopped yelling, shrinking behind his mother, stealing fearful, hopeful glances at his sister.
Elisa closed her eyes, drew a deep breath. When she opened them, they held only weariness, ice, and absolute resolve.
She turned to a court officer who seemed to be in charge, presenting her ID (though it might soon be frozen or restricted). "I am Elisa Rossi. What is the current status? Which hospital is my grandfather in? Which department is handling my father's case? And them," she indicated Sophia and Massimo, "what is their disposition?"
The officer checked his papers, answering matter-of-factly. "Vittorio Rossi is in the ICU at San Raffaele. Andrea Rossi is being held by the Financial Crimes Unit. As for these two," he glanced at Sophia and Massimo, "they are not named as direct suspects, but all assets linked to the Rossi Group are frozen. Their current residence is also sealed due to mortgage fraud allegations. They must vacate immediately. They may take personal items not on the seizure list."
Homeless. Truly homeless.
Elisa turned to Sophia and Massimo, her voice terrifyingly calm. "Take what you can carry. Come with me." She didn't say where, didn't look at them again, turning instead to Lorenzo. "We go to the hospital first. To see Nonno."
Lorenzo nodded, staying close. Maria and Gianluigi got out, helping load Sophia and Massimo's pitiful belongings into the truck's back seat. Sophia wept the entire time. Massimo kept his head down, avoiding all eyes.
Elisa got into the passenger seat, Lorenzo beside her. The vehicle pulled away from what had once been a symbol of family glory, heading into darkness and chaos. In the back were the architects of the ruin, and the blood ties she could not completely sever.
Outside the window, Milan's lights still flowed in brilliant streams, but they no longer reached the coldness inside her. The empire had fallen. Amidst the rubble, she would have to be the one to stand again—for her grandfather, for her father, and for the crushing, inescapable weight of duty and blood now on her shoulders.
And the warmth of the man's hand beside her was the only faint, real heat she could feel in this piercingly cold night.