Time flowed like distinct, turbulent rivers between Milan and San Gimignano.
The name Elisa Rossi once again appeared frequently in financial sections and industry bulletins. No longer merely "the tragic former heir" or "the jewelry queen embroiled in family scandal," she was now known as "Rossi Group restructuring CEO," associated with a series of cold, decisive, even fierce business moves.
She operated like a precise and tireless machine. First to arrive at the office each day, last to leave, her schedule timed to the minute. She spearheaded the divestment of several key assets, engaged in multiple rounds of what could only be called brutal negotiations with former competitors—now potential acquirers or partners—generating crucial cash flow. She revived the stalled development of the "Phoenix Collection," working directly with designers and master artisans, strictly controlling costs and timelines. Unexpectedly, she secured two long-term custom jewelry contracts, one from a Middle Eastern royal foundation and another from a Swiss private bank. The amounts weren't huge, but their symbolic significance was—signaling to the market that the "Rossi" brand's allure and craft credibility hadn't vanished with the change in ownership.
Every time she appeared in public or internal meetings, her makeup was flawless, her attire impeccable, her demeanor focused and composed, as if the past six months had been merely an extended leave, and she was simply back on her destined track, now sharper, more efficient, and more unshakable than ever.
She had not returned to San Gimignano. No calls, no letters, no messages relayed through Anna. The platinum band remained on her left ring finger, but under countless flashes and scrutinizing gazes, it seemed more like a distant, ambiguous symbol, its meaning rendered hazy against the harsh backdrop of business reality.
Meanwhile, on the top floor of Visconti Bank.
Alessandro Visconti reviewed the weekly reports from his "consultants," his satisfaction deepening with each read. The reports detailed Elisa's every itinerary, meeting summary, focus points in document reviews, and her shifting attitudes toward various department heads. All indicated she was fully immersed in the arduous task of saving (or restructuring) the Rossi Group, with notable effectiveness.
"She's even more exceptional than we anticipated, isn't she?" Alessandro remarked to his private lawyer seated opposite, lightly tapping the report's cover.
"Indeed, Signor Visconti. Her business acumen and execution are unmatched in the current management. The creditors' committee is highly satisfied with her work. Some are even beginning to discuss whether she should be retained post-restructuring, or at least granted some incentive equity." The lawyer replied cautiously.
Alessandro smiled faintly, offering no comment. His concern wasn't the creditors' satisfaction, but whether Elisa's "performance" was sufficient for his next move.
"And the case against Andrea Rossi?" he changed the subject.
"Progress is slow, but... not without room for maneuver. Issues with the evidence collection procedures for several key pieces. If we push for re-examination, it could potentially weaken some charges. Of course, that requires very... specialized impetus." The lawyer hinted.
Alessandro nodded, a glint of calculation in his gray-blue eyes. "I understand. Timing is crucial."
In San Gimignano, time flowed differently.
The bakery's daily rhythms continued, filled with scents and customers. But the light in the small upstairs room often burned late into the night.
Lorenzo did not wallow in worry or despondency. He maintained near-daily contact with Damiani, the lawyer in Milan, sifting through each new document, scrutinizing every potentially overlooked detail in the investigation. Utilizing his archival expertise and financial analysis skills from his investment banking days, he tried to trace favorable leads for Andrea within the labyrinth of fund flows and transaction records, or at least identify weak points in the existing charges that could be challenged.
He occasionally received careful calls from Sofia, asking if there was any news of Elisa or updates on Andrea from Milan. He always relayed the limited information calmly, his tone betraying no emotion. Maria and Gianluigi watched with concern, but asked no more, simply making sure his dinner was kept warm and the bakery remained a tidy, welcoming space.
Lorenzo knew what Elisa was doing—at least, what she was doing publicly. He read the financial reports, those articles about her "iron-fisted restructuring" and "royal return." He studied the photos of her cold, flawless profile, the tiny metal circle on her ring finger, almost invisible in the high-resolution images.
He did not attempt to contact her. Not once.
He remembered her resolute back as she left, that phrase: *"Believe me."*
Weeks later, Milan. A private room in a Michelin three-star restaurant overlooking the old opera house.
Alessandro had booked the entire terrace. Milan's lights twinkled in the night, the opera house's dome glowing gold under the illumination. A long table was draped in white linen, silverware and crystal glasses reflecting candlelight. A violinist played softly in a corner.
Elisa arrived punctually. She wore a wine-red velvet gown, simple and elegant, her hair loosely gathered to reveal her graceful neckline, adorned with a Rossi diamond necklace. She looked breathtakingly beautiful, and distantly cold.
Dinner proceeded with polite conversation. Alessandro discussed the latest developments in his art fund, upcoming Milan auctions, and trivial industry gossip. Elisa mostly listened, responding occasionally, cutting her food with elegant motions, tasting little.
Only after dessert was cleared, the final round of digestifs poured, and the waiters had discreetly withdrawn, did Alessandro gradually shift the topic.
"I hear the investigation into your father's case has reached a stalemate," he said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, his tone casual but his gaze fixed on Elisa.
Elisa lifted her glass, fingertips tightening slightly, her expression unchanged. "The lawyers are working on it."
"Work is one thing, results another." Alessandro leaned forward slightly, candlelight casting shifting shadows on his face. "Some doors require specific keys. Certain pressures need individuals of sufficient... weight to apply."
Elisa met his gaze, her ice-blue eyes steady. "And your key, your weight—when do you plan to use them?"
Alessandro smiled, a smile of one controlling the tempo. "That depends on you, Elisa. I've always admired your efficiency, and I've kept my promises—giving you a stage, letting you perform. Now, the spotlight is back on you. You've proven you're still the irreplaceable Elisa Rossi." He paused, his voice lowering, taking on a magnetic, persuasive quality. "But family is another matter. Your father's freedom, the Rossi family's last vestige of dignity, even your future, permanent hold on that position... these require a more solid alliance."
He set down his glass, interlacing his fingers on the table, his gaze becoming sharp and direct. "End that... temporary marriage, born of misplaced pity. Then, marry me. A Visconti-Rossi union would erase the stain from your father's name, secure your position within the group, make our shared future unassailable. At that point, bringing your father home would be a matter of a few phone calls."
The private room fell quiet, filled only by the distant hum of the city and the lingering notes of the violin.
Elisa did not answer immediately. She looked down at the wine swirling in her glass, her long lashes casting faint shadows on her cheeks.
In the past, faced with such a proposal, she would have refused without hesitation, drawing clear boundaries with icy words.
Now, she remained silent.
The silence lasted a full ten seconds, stretching long enough for the curve of Alessandro's lips to deepen.
Finally, Elisa looked up. Her expression remained calm, but deep in her eyes, something seemed to be struggling, weighing options. She did not agree. But neither did she refuse.
"This matter," her voice was quieter than usual, yet clear in Alessandro's ears, "I need time to consider."
Brilliant light flashed in Alessandro's eyes. He did not press, merely raised his glass elegantly.
"Of course," his voice was filled with pleasure. "Prudence is a virtue. I await your answer, Elisa."
Elisa also raised her glass. The two crystal vessels met in a light, cold clink, the sound swallowed by the resuming, gentle strains of the violin.
Outside the window, Milan's nightscape glittered, seductive and elusive, like a vast chessboard built of glass, steel, and desire.