The morning mist over San Gimignano had yet to lift when the dark gray Aston Martin DB11 reappeared, a silent predator parked once more on the cobblestone piazza outside Costa's Bakery. This time, there was no roar of the engine, only a near-ceremonial silence.
Elisa descended from the bakery's second floor carrying a small Valextra suitcase. She wore a crisp ivory double-breasted cashmere coat, impeccably tailored, its lines sharp as a blade. Underneath was a midnight blue silk blouse and matching high-waisted trousers. On her feet were new Christian Louboutin black pointed-toe pumps—the brand's signature red sole a startling flash in the morning light. Her makeup was precise: lips painted a full crimson, eyes accentuated to appear even clearer and sharper. Her hair was pulled back into a severe, low chignon. Diamond-cut studs from Rossi Jewelry's current collection adorned her ears. Her ice-blue eyes in the dawn light resembled a frozen lake, utterly still.
Downstairs, everyone stood gathered. Maria's hands twisted her apron, her lips pressed into a thin, pale line. Gianluigi stood silently behind the counter, his strong arms at his sides, his gaze complex as he watched the woman who had become like a daughter prepare to leave. Sofia's face remained pale, her eyes holding fear, confusion, and a sting of betrayal. Massimo kicked restlessly at a nearby sack of flour, unable to look at his sister.
Lorenzo stood by the door, the morning light stretching his upright figure into a long shadow. His face revealed no emotion, his gaze merely steady as he watched Elisa descend step by step.
He observed her expressionless face, only reaching out as she took the final step to calmly pull open the bakery's heavy wooden door for her.
Elisa did not pause. Her back straight, the sharp click of her heels echoing on the ancient floorboards, she walked directly toward the open door.
She did not linger at the threshold for even a second. Her figure merged resolutely with the cool morning light outside, heading toward the waiting car.
*"Whatever I do next, you must believe me."*
Those were the words she had spoken to Lorenzo, deep in the night days ago, in that small upstairs room.
Lorenzo had simply looked at her for a long time, and then said, "All right."
Alessandro was already out of the car, leaning against the door. Seeing Elisa like this, a clear flash of appreciation and satisfaction passed through his gray-blue eyes. With elegant grace, he opened the passenger door for her, a movement akin to welcoming a queen back to her chariot.
Elisa exchanged no words. She merely bent and slid into the seat, her spine still rigidly straight.
Alessandro closed her door, circled back to the driver's side. Before starting the engine, he cast a glance toward the bakery entrance—his gaze sweeping over the varied expressions within, finally lingering for half a second on Lorenzo's composed face. A faint, nearly victorious curve touched his lips before he looked away.
The car pulled away smoothly, the sound of tires on cobblestones low and swift. It soon vanished around the bend where mist met rolling hills, leaving only a faint wisp of exhaust quickly diluted by the chill air.
Inside the bakery, a dead silence reigned. Maria's red-rimmed eyes, Gianluigi's heavy gaze, Sofia's trembling, unspoken words, Massimo's stubbornly averted profile. She had not said goodbye, only given a slight nod before turning, without hesitation, toward the car awaiting her.
Finally, after a long while, Maria choked out a sob. "She... how could she... That man is a viper! He'll devour her whole!"
Gianluigi walked over, drawing his wife into his arms, a rough hand patting her back. "She must have her reasons," he said, his voice low.
"What possible reasons could she have!" Sofia finally erupted, her voice shrill and trembling. "She's dazzled by that position! She can't let go of her CEO title, her glass tower! Her father is still... still in that place, and she just goes off with the man who ruined our entire family! Does this family mean nothing to her?!" As she spoke, tears fell, whether from anger or despair.
Massimo ran a hand through his hair irritably, muttering, "Why would she..."
All eyes eventually settled on Lorenzo, still standing by the door.
He slowly closed it, shutting out the cool morning air.
"Lorenzo!" Maria urged anxiously. "Aren't you worried? That Visconti, the way he looks at Elisa... it's not kindness!"
"I know," Lorenzo interjected, his voice still even, though a dark undercurrent stirred in his eyes. "Because I heard every word he said. That's precisely why I believe what Elisa is doing now, she has a reason she must do it." He paused, looking at Sofia and Massimo. "Believe me, she cares more than anyone about Signor Andrea. And about the future of the Rossi family."
His words brought another hush over the shop. Sofia stopped crying, staring at Lorenzo as if truly seeing him for the first time—this man she had once regarded as an "outsider."
Lorenzo looked out the window in the direction the car had vanished. After a long moment, he withdrew his gaze and looked at his family. "What we can do is hold the fort here. And wait for her to come back."
Days later, Milan.
The glass curtain wall of the Rossi Group headquarters still reflected the city's cold daylight, but inside, everything had changed. Bankruptcy administrator notices were posted along the corridors. The former bustle was replaced by a restrained desolation. Staff numbers had plummeted. Those who remained mostly looked apprehensive, hurrying through the halls.
Yet, a piece of news broke like a stone tossed into still water, sending ripples through the stagnant surface: Elisa Rossi, after the group entered administration, had returned to the building as a "Special Operations Advisor." And, according to internal whispers, she was about to be nominated by the main creditors' committee to serve as CEO during the restructuring.
Public opinion erupted instantly.
Financial headlines brimmed with speculation and innuendo: *Phoenix Returning to the Nest? Or Dancing with Wolves?* *The Last Queen of the Rossis, Serving a New Master?* *Visconti's "Gift": Can the Dethroned Princess Reclaim Her Scepter?* Social media buzzed with theories, the former "Jewelry Queen's" image painted in myriad colors—the tragic avenger, the compromised capitulator, the shrewd opportunist, even the cold-hearted daughter disregarding her imprisoned father's plight.
Elisa ignored it all.
She returned to the top-floor office. The furnishings had shifted slightly, with more file cabinets from the administrators, but the chair by her window remained. She sat down, her gaze calmly sweeping the familiar city skyline before opening her computer to tackle the backlog.
Her work ethic was one of ruthless efficiency. First to arrive, last to leave. Meetings scheduled to the minute. Decisions on documents were swift and decisive. Her assessments of legacy projects were data-precise to an unsettling degree. She no longer wore prominent family jewels, only simple pearl studs and the increasingly worn platinum band on her left ring finger. She rarely smiled. Her words were concise. Yet her presence felt more condensed, more formidable than ever before.
Former colleagues felt conflicted. Some saw a glimmer of hope in her return. Others suspected she was merely a puppet for the creditors. Most watched cautiously. Regardless, within days, Elisa made one thing clear: regardless of title, she remained the person in this building who understood every cog in the Rossi machine. The only one capable of rapidly untangling the mess atop the ruins and making the hard calls.
Meanwhile, in the top-floor office of Visconti Bank.
Alessandro Visconti stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of whisky in hand, listening to his assistant's report.
"...Signora Rossi has fully taken over operations. The first draft of the layoff list and asset divestment plan is expected before the creditors' committee this week. High efficiency. Less resistance than anticipated. Some of the old guard seem... willing to cooperate with her." The assistant's tone was measured and steady.
Alessandro swirled his glass, ice clinking. "As expected. She was always the best operator, even when managing someone else's inheritance." He took a sip, his gray-blue eyes narrowing slightly. "Our people. How are they placed?"
"One 'consultant' each from Legal and Strategy has joined the Rossi Group's core restructuring teams under the guise of assistance. Finance... no suitable position yet. Signora Rossi maintains a tight grip on financial data. She reviews every significant payment personally."
"Of course she does." Alessandro gave a short laugh, its tone ambiguous—appreciation or mockery. "Tell the 'consultants' to keep their eyes sharp. I want to know who she meets, what she says, what documents she reads. Especially... anything related to Costa. Or San Gimignano."
"Yes, sir."
After the assistant left, Alessandro stood alone, watching Milan's nightscape. The city lights sparkled like a carpet of diamonds. A smile of certainty touched his lips.
The pawn was in play.
He had provided the stage (though shattered). She had displayed her competence (sharp as ever). Everything seemed to follow his script: she needed his resources to escape the family quagmire, save her father, regain her career peak. And he would gradually tighten the strings, ultimately reaping this phoenix who'd passed through fire yet couldn't truly rise again, along with the few remaining, still-valuable fragments of her crumbled kingdom.
As for that small-town baker and his son...
A cold flicker of disdain passed through Alessandro's eyes. Against the tide of an era, personal sentiment and steadfastness were but insignificant grains of sand. Elisa belonged at the pyramid's apex by nature. A brief lapse could be forgiven. He was confident she would eventually see clearly where her true place was.
And he would wait patiently. And, when necessary, give a gentle nudge.
Milan's night deepened. Lights blazed in the glass tower. Elisa still worked at her desk, a cup of long-cold coffee at her elbow. The city's glow reflected on her impassive profile. No one could see what intricate strategies and desperate gambits churned beneath the ice of her gaze.