Outside the ICU at San Raffaele, the very air felt starched—sterile and uncompromising. Harsh white light glared off polished floor tiles. Through thick glass, Elisa watched her grandfather, a tiny figure adrift in a sea of tubes and monitors.
Vittorio Rossi. The name that once made Milan's business world tremble, the man who always stood straight, whose gaze was sharp as a hawk's—now lay like a leaf torn by a storm, shrunken against white sheets. An oxygen mask covered his face. His chest rose and fell with the ventilator's monotonous rhythm. His usually immaculate silver hair was scattered on the pillow. The skin on his hands was mottled with age spots and bruised from IVs, so thin it looked brittle.
Elisa's palm pressed against the cold glass, her fingertips white. Her chest felt stuffed with icy, sodden cotton—heavy, cold, each breath painful. Anger, grief, helplessness, and a sharp, stinging guilt twisted inside her. If she hadn't left, if she'd noticed sooner, if… Countless *ifs* coiled around her heart like poison ivy.
But she didn't cry. Tears felt too frivolous in the face of total collapse. She stood frozen, a statue, only the faint tremor in her lashes betraying the storm within. She remembered her grandfather's calloused, warm hands guiding hers as a child, teaching her to write "Rossi." His silent, steadfast presence behind her at her first board meeting. The rare hope in his eyes during the Phoenix discussions, and the final, shattering anger… Those memories overlapped with the lifeless figure before her, then shattered, leaving only the cold barrier of glass and the machines' steady *beep—beep—*, a funeral dirge for the Rossi empire.
A warm hand covered hers on the glass, gently peeling her fingers from the cold surface and enveloping them. Lorenzo. He didn't speak, just stood beside her, his body a silent support. His hand wasn't hot, but solid—an unmoving rock in a storm, its warmth seeping slowly into her frozen blood.
"The lead doctor says the critical phase has passed," Lorenzo murmured, his voice low, as if wary of disturbing the old man or her fragile composure. "His constitution is strong. Waking is a matter of time." He paused, his thumb stroking the back of her hand—a tiny gesture of comfort. "What he'll need when he wakes is someone to tell him the sky hasn't fully fallen. That someone is still holding it up."
Elisa squeezed her eyes shut, drawing a sharp breath that stung with antiseptic. When she opened them, the turmoil was forced down, replaced by a deep, exhausted resolve. She withdrew her hand, not rejecting his comfort, but needing to stand on her own.
"I know," she said, her voice hoarse but clear. "I just… needed a moment to absorb this." She took one last look through the glass, then turned her back on the heartbreaking scene. "Come on. There are two other problems to deal with."
Back in the parking lot, Maria and Gianluigi waited in the truck. Sophia still wept quietly in the back seat. Massimo appeared to be asleep, his face streaked with dried tears and post-panic numbness.
"How is he?" Maria leaned out, her face etched with worry.
"Stable. Still unconscious," Elisa answered tersely, getting into the passenger seat with a stiffness she couldn't quite hide.
Lorenzo took the driver's seat (Gianluigi insisted, saying he knew the roads better, and stayed in back to mind their "guests"). The truck pulled into Milan's congested evening traffic. Neon lights cast shifting, garish shadows across everyone's faces.
"Where to now?" Gianluigi asked, watching Elisa in the rearview mirror.
Where indeed? Her Milan apartment wouldn't be safe for long. A hotel? Funds were a question, and with Sophia and Massimo in tow, it would be too conspicuous, too risky.
"San Gimignano," Lorenzo said calmly, signaling to merge onto the highway out of the city. "There's room. If not at the house, we can find a short-term rental in town. We settle first, then figure out the rest."
Maria agreed instantly. "Yes! Back home! It's warm, there's food! Better than this cold, reporter-infested city!" She didn't even consider the "inconvenience."
From the back seat, Sophia's weeping hitched at the words "San Gimignano" and "town," then grew louder, tinged with resistance. "That… provincial place… how can we possibly…"
"Mother!" Elisa cut her off, her voice like a whip in the quiet cab. She didn't turn, her cold, exhausted gaze meeting Sophia's in the rearview mirror. "Do you have the luxury of choice? Or would you prefer to sleep on a Milan street tonight, waiting for creditors or journalists to find you?"
Sophia's sobs choked off. Her face went pale, lips trembling. She fell silent, looking down. Massimo woke, glanced around bewildered, and shrank back.
Gianluigi cleared his throat, his tone kindly. "The town's nice. Quiet. Good air. I know old Battista—his son works in Florence now, their old house is empty. A bit dated, but livable. The rent's fair."
It was decided. No one asked Sophia or Massimo for their opinion.
San Gimignano was dark when they arrived. The town's lights were warm and sparse, a world away from Milan's cold glitter. The bakery was closed, but light from the upstairs windows was a comfort.
Maria didn't even let them inside. "Gianluigi, you take Elisa and Lorenzo to see Battista's place. I'll get the Signora and Massimo upstairs to wash up and have some hot soup. They look like ghosts." She practically herded the still-dazed Sophia and confused Massimo upstairs.
Battista's house was on the town's edge—a two-story stone building with a weedy little yard. It was old: peeling plaster, cracked paint on the window frames. Furniture stood under dust sheets inside. But it was structurally sound, with working utilities and basic amenities.
"Needs a good clean," Gianluigi said apologetically, rubbing his hands. "But the roof was fixed last year. No leaks. Kitchen works."
Sophia, brought over by Maria, wrinkled her nose at the smell of old dust and the dim light, raising a handkerchief. Massimo's face fell. "Here? How can anyone live here? Is there even a proper bathroom?" He pointed at the old-fashioned washroom.
Elisa stood in the doorway, not entering. She watched the undisguised disgust on her mother's and brother's faces—even now, having lost their mansion, status, nearly everything, dependent on charity. That familiar, crumbling-aristocrat arrogance and stupidity needled her eyes.
A bone-deep weariness settled over her. She took a step forward. Her voice was flat, without a ripple, yet it froze the air in the room.
"Does this place offend your refined sensibilities?" Her gaze moved from Sophia's handkerchief to Massimo's sullen face. "Good. The street is right outside. You're free to go. Find a place more 'suitable.' Back to Milan, to a hostel near the detention center? Or to your Uncle Karl, who just divorced you and took your last dime?"
She paused, the corner of her mouth lifting in a cold, mirthless smile. "Or perhaps try Alessandro Visconti. Ask if his 'Stella d'Europa' project has a doorman position for you."
Sophia went deathly pale, the handkerchief falling. Massimo stared, horrified, speechless. The reality finally crashed down: they were not just penniless, but deep in debt, their reputations in ruins. Their only shelter was the daughter/sister they had betrayed.
"Gianluigi," Elisa turned from them, her tone polite but final, "please discuss the rent with Signor Battista. We'll take it. I'll arrange for cleaning tomorrow." She finally glanced back at them. "Mother, Massimo. Until you find a 'better option,' this is home. If it's not to your taste, the door is there."
She walked out without a backward glance. Lorenzo followed silently, pausing briefly beside Sophia and Massimo, but saying nothing.
Outside, the night air was cool, carrying scents of olive trees and distant fields. Elisa leaned against the cold truck door, looking up at the clear, star-dusted sky over the town—distant and peaceful. She took a deep, slow breath, as if expelling all the knots and chill from her chest.
Lorenzo stood beside her, waiting.
After a while, she spoke softly, almost to herself. "Sometimes I wonder if we share the same blood."
"The blood is the same," Lorenzo's voice was clear in the dark. "The choices are different. You made yours. They made theirs. That's all."
Elisa looked down. After a long moment, she gave a quiet "Mm."
***
The days that followed stretched and compressed, filled with anxiety, frantic travel, and helpless waiting.
Elisa and Lorenzo became regulars on the road between San Gimignano and Milan, in Gianluigi's truck or the most nondescript rental cars they could find. Elisa leveraged her dwindling contacts and credibility to hire the best financial crime lawyers and a medical team. The lawyers frowned at the colossal, tangled mess of the Rossi Group. The doctors cautiously assessed Vittorio's condition: hope for recovery, but a long road ahead, with no further stress allowed.
Sophia and Massimo were effectively confined to the stone house. Maria delivered three meals a day without fail—usually leftover (but still excellent) bread from the bakery, with simple stews or soup. At first Sophia complained. Maria didn't mince words: "Don't like it, don't eat it. The supermarket's 500 meters left, Signora. Is your credit card still working?" Sophia soon learned to accept the food in silence. Massimo hid in his room playing games (his console, miraculously saved in the chaos), emerging only to snatch food and retreat. The town soon learned of their "background." Glances were mixed, but out of respect for the Costas and Elisa, people kept a polite distance.
A week later, Vittorio woke up.
Elisa and Lorenzo were in Milan, meeting with lawyers, trying to untangle the snarl of debts and legal liabilities when the call came. She dropped everything and rushed to the hospital.
The old man had been moved to a private suite. It was nicer, but the aura of frailty remained. Propped up in bed, still attached to monitors, his face sallow, eyes sunken. But his grey-blue gaze, though lacking its former edge, was lucid.
He saw Elisa. His lips moved slightly. He seemed to want to speak, but in the end, only let out a faint sigh—a sigh carrying immense weight, bending his already bowed shoulders.
Elisa walked to the bed and took his thin, cold hand. The skin was loose; she could feel the bones beneath.
"Nonno…" Her voice caught.
Vittorio slowly shook his head. His movements were sluggish, his eyes weary on hers. His voice was a rasp, weak, but each word was painfully clear. "Elisa… I'm old… truly old now. This time… I can't carry it."
He paused a long time, each breath an effort. His cloudy gaze held hers—deep pain, unspoken regret—but finally settled into something like resigned entrustment.
"This family… this mess… from now on… it's on you."
Having spoken, he seemed spent. He closed his eyes, but his hand gave hers a faint, weak squeeze before letting go.
Elisa stood there, holding her grandfather's limp hand, looking at his face, which seemed to have aged another decade in sleep. The room was quiet save for the machines' steady rhythm. No rousing speech, no encouragement. Just a heavy sentence, placing the entire ruin and its future squarely on her shoulders.
She gently placed his hand back under the covers, tucking them around him. Then she turned and walked out of the room, her steps steady.
Lorenzo waited outside. He stepped forward as she emerged.
Elisa looked up at him. Her face showed no particular expression, but deep in her eyes, beneath the still water, something had solidified, hardened into a foundation.
"He's awake," she said. "He said it's up to me now."
Lorenzo looked at her. He didn't offer empty phrases like "you can do it" or "I'll help." He simply nodded. Then he reached out, quite naturally, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture so familiar it might have been done a thousand times.
"Then let's go," he said. "The road is long."
The hospital corridor was empty and quiet. Their footsteps echoed, one light, one heavier, yet oddly in sync, moving toward the unknown but inevitable path ahead. Behind them, in the room, the old man slept, handing the storm-tossed family ship to the only helmsman still on deck. And beside the helmsman stood a silent, steadfast first mate.
The night was still deep. But dawn would come—even from atop the deepest ruins.