The air in Milan smelled of stale despair—at least, to Elisa. The law firm's conference table was buried in files. Each document seemed a sponge saturated with bitterness, weighing heavily on everyone present. Father Andrea's case was like a carriage stuck in mud, its wheels spinning uselessly, splattering more filth without advancing an inch. Frozen bank accounts, seized assets, tangled debt chains… All the legal team seemed capable of was sorting this mess into neat categories and telling her: it takes time, it takes luck, it takes a miracle.
"A miracle?" Elisa stepped out of the law firm building. The autumn sun was harsh, yet she felt chilled to the bone. Lorenzo followed, carrying a briefcase stuffed with useless papers—the case now looked like a sarcastic joke.
She stopped, studying her reflection in a shop window across the street: a tired face, deep shadows under her eyes, lips pressed into a stubborn line. She looked less like the Jewelry Queen, more like a legal assistant who'd just lost her final case.
"We're going back to San Gimignano," she said suddenly, her voice carrying a near-liberating resolve.
Lorenzo didn't ask why. He simply nodded. "Good."
He knew it was better than being trapped in this quagmire that only devoured hope and time. He also knew there was more to Elisa's decision. Those two "temporarily stored" troubles in the stone house couldn't stay stored forever.
***
The return journey was more somber than the trip out. Elisa stared out the window, her fingers unconsciously tapping her knee—a slow, heavy rhythm. Lorenzo drove in silence, handing her a bottle of water only when needed.
They reached the town by evening. Sunset gilded the ancient stone towers with warm gold. The air carried the scents of dinners from countless homes. Costa's Bakery was closed, but light shone warmly from the second floor.
They didn't go directly to the bakery. First, they went to Old Battista's stone house.
The outside looked tidier than before—the weeds by the door had been roughly pulled. But upon opening the door, that familiar smell—a mix of dust, cheap air freshener, and decadence—assaulted them. Sofia was huddled on the only decent old sofa in the living room, wrapped in an expensive but pilled cashmere shawl, staring blankly at her phone screen (though her social media was already flooded with vitriol and mockery). Massimo sprawled in another creaky armchair, headphones on, fingers madly working a game controller, the screen's flickering light reflecting off his numb face.
Hearing the door, they both looked up. A flash of hope crossed Sofia's eyes, only to die instantly upon seeing Elisa and Lorenzo, replaced by a habitual, cringing complaint. "You're back? Any news from Milan? When will your father get out?"
Elisa didn't answer. She walked into the living room, surveying it. Empty pizza boxes and soda cans littered the table. Snack wrappers scattered the floor. The room's only sign of life was a half-dead potted plant in the corner—a gift from Maria on her last visit.
"Clean this up," Elisa said, her voice calm but brooking no argument.
"What?" Sofia was caught off guard.
"I said, clean this place. Take out the trash. Wipe the table. Sweep the floor." Elisa's gaze shifted to Massimo. "You. Pause the game. Wash the dishes piled in the kitchen sink for the last three days."
Massimo ripped off his headphones, disbelief and defiance written on his face. "Why should I? I'm not a servant!"
"Why should you?" Elisa repeated, walking slowly towards him. She didn't raise her voice, but when her ice-blue eyes fixed on him, Massimo instinctively shrank back. "Because the air you breathe, the roof over your head, and that last frozen pizza you ate were all paid for by me. Because you and your mother," she turned to Sofia, "ran the family into the ground, gave Grandfather a heart attack, put Father in a police station, and now huddle here like hermit crabs, waiting for someone to drop food in your mouths."
Sofia's face flushed, half shame, half anger. "Elisa! How can you say that! I'm your mother! We're family!"
"Family?" Elisa laughed, a cold, sharp sound. "Does family secretly mortgage the entire business to con artists? Does family stab me in the back and expect me to keep supporting them for free?" She paused, her gaze sharp as a blade. "Starting tomorrow, no one will bring you food. I'll pay this house's rent for one more month. After that, if you want a roof over your heads and food in your bellies, you figure it out yourselves."
She turned and walked out, leaving behind a deathly silence and two instantly pale faces.
"Elisa! You can't do this! I'm your mother!" Sofia's voice, choked with tears, followed her to the door.
Elisa stopped outside without turning. "Work or starve. The choice is yours."
Lorenzo silently followed, closing the creaking wooden door behind them. From inside came Sofia's muffled sobs, Massimo's furious curses, and the sound of something shattering.
"They'll comply," Lorenzo said softly as they walked the cobblestones back to the bakery.
"I know," Elisa's voice was weary. "I just… needed them to understand it themselves."
***
The next morning, Maria did not appear at the stone house door with her usual basket of food. Nor at noon. By evening, as Elisa and Lorenzo came down from the makeshift office upstairs (they'd converted a small room to handle Milan affairs), they found Sofia and Massimo standing on the bakery's back steps, looking haggard, their eyes darting nervously.
Sofia's expensive cashmere sweater was dusty, her hair slightly disheveled. Massimo had dark circles under his eyes, looking utterly drained.
"…We need work," Sofia's voice was a whisper. She couldn't meet Elisa's eyes.
Elisa leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Made up your minds?"
Massimo gave a reluctant nod, eyes fixed on his shoes.
"Not many jobs in town," Elisa said flatly. "Dishwasher at the trattoria, stocker at the market, helper at the florist, or…" She paused, looking into the bakery. "The Costa Bakery might need temporary help. Preparing ingredients, cleaning. Hourly wage. Not high, but enough for rent and basic food."
A flash of clear resistance crossed Sofia's face. Her—the former Signora Rossi, Milan socialite—working as a bakery drudge? It was worse than death.
Elisa seemed to read her mind, adding coolly, "Or you could try seasonal work at the vineyards outside town. Room and board included, but the work is heavier."
Sofia shuddered. She imagined herself under the scorching sun among grapevines, hands caked in dirt. Then she looked at the warm scent wafting from the bakery and Maria's busy, contented figure inside.
"…The bakery," she finally forced out through gritted teeth.
Massimo chose the small supermarket in town—at least it had air conditioning, and stocking shelves sounded easier than kneading dough.
***
Sofia Rossi's first day at Costa Bakery was a disaster.
Maria gave her the simplest task: scrubbing baking sheets and molds. The heavy iron sheets were caked with baked-on grease and flour residue, requiring hot water, strong detergent, and steel wool. Within half an hour, Sofia's meticulously cared-for fifty-year-old hands were raw and red, her nails packed with grime. Expensive hand cream was useless against industrial cleaner. Her back ached. Her apron was splattered with water and suds. Her hair was limp from the steam.
What was harder to bear was the omnipresent feeling of "humility." She had to follow Maria's instructions—"Sofia, this needs another scrub!" "Careful, don't splash water everywhere!" "Put the cleaned ones over there to dry!"—delivered in a direct, no-nonsense tone, devoid of the deference or subtlety she was used to in Milan.
At lunch break, she sat on a small stool in the kitchen corner, looking at her red, peeling fingers, tears threatening to fall. She stole a glance toward the front: Gianluigi was chatting jovially with a regular, handing him a freshly baked biscuit; Maria was taking money from a customer while reminding a child to "say hello to your mama for me"; Lorenzo came down from upstairs, naturally taking a sack of flour from Maria, the two exchanging a few low words before Maria laughed and patted his back.
It was an atmosphere she had never felt in her own home. No scheming, no coldness, no constant need to maintain an elegant facade. Just rough care, direct communication, and a warmth rooted in daily labor and mutual support.
Sofia looked down at her own sorry state. For the first time, she clearly realized: everything she'd once had—the mansion, the jewels, the social status—was like crystal in a display case, glittering but cold and fragile. This life before her, dusted with flour, soaked in sweat, full of trivial squabbles and hearty laughter, was the real, solid, unbreakable stone.
The next day, the blisters on her hands burst, stinging fiercely. Maria saw, said nothing, but at the end of the day pressed a small jar of homemade, pungent-smelling herbal salve into her hands. "Put this on tonight. It'll help. It's always tough at first."
Sofia clutched the crude glass jar, watching Maria turn back to her work, something thick catching in her throat.
A few days later, Maria started teaching her more "core" tasks: how to sift flour, how to check yeast activity, even letting her try kneading a small piece of simple dough. Sofia was clumsy. Flour went everywhere. The dough was either too tough or too slack. Maria sometimes clicked her tongue impatiently, but more often, she bellowed instructions: "Water! A little more water! Yes! Not like that, knead it like this, push with the heel of your hand… Good heavens, are you giving the dough a massage?"
Once, Sofia accidentally knocked over a whole bowl of olive oil and herb mixture meant for focaccia. Golden oil spilled across the floor. She froze, waiting for the expected scolding.
Maria did gasp. But the next moment, instead of yelling, she quickly grabbed rags and a mop, muttering, "What a waste, good olive oil… Lucky it didn't get into the flour… Sofia, don't just stand there, get me some sawdust, over in the corner!"
They cleaned up the mess together. Afterward, both were sweaty, stained with oil and sawdust. Looking at each other's disheveled state, Sofia, for the first time in that little kitchen, couldn't help but laugh with Maria—though her smile quickly froze with the awareness of her own lapse, that moment of lightness was real.
At the end of the day, Maria, as usual, gave her two leftover but still soft, sweet loaves from the day's baking. "Take these. For dinner. That boy Massimo at the market must be tired too."
Sofia walked back to the stone house carrying the two loaves wrapped in plain brown paper. Streetlights stretched her shadow long. She looked at the bread in her hands, remembering in Milan, her bread was airlifted from a specific bakery, served on silver trays with imported butter and jam. She couldn't remember the taste of that bread. These two in her hands were still warm from the oven, emitting the most honest aroma of wheat.
She pushed open the door to the stone house. Massimo was already back, slouched in a chair, complaining about the supermarket manager's nitpicking and the boredom of stocking shelves. The room was still messy, but at least the kitchen sink wasn't piled high with dirty dishes—the only good habit they'd been forced to adopt after Elisa's ultimatum.
Sofia put the bread on the table, washed her hands (the cuts on her hands had scabbed, still stinging with water). Then she sat down, tore off a piece of bread, and slowly put it in her mouth.
Chew. Swallow.
Simple. Solid. A hint of salt, a slight tang of yeast. The feeling of her stomach filling made her remember, vaguely, a long, long time ago, when she was a little girl and the Rossi empire wasn't yet vast, the simple, similar aroma of food in her family's kitchen.
Massimo shuffled over, tore off a big piece, and stuffed it in his mouth. "Starving… The supermarket sandwiches are awful. This bread's okay."
Sofia didn't reply. She just tore off another small piece and chewed slowly.
Outside, San Gimignano sank into night, utterly still. The light in the stone house was dim. On the table, only two remaining loaves. No servants, no fine clothes, no perfunctory socializing. Just tired bodies, unhealed hands, a son's childish complaints, and the real, rough food in her mouth.
A strange, faint, almost imperceptible stirring, like a seed buried too long and too deep in her barren heart, trembled ever so slightly, awakened by the warmth of this bread and the faint sound of laughter from the bakery next door.