The "marriage signal" meticulously released by Alessandro Visconti struck Milan's social scene like a boulder dropped into a still pond. The resulting waves swept through every corner within forty-eight hours. From private clubs on Via Monte Napoleone to art salons in Brera, from financial journalists' private message groups to luxury PR afternoon teas, everyone whispered the same "reliable intelligence":
**Elisa Rossi's marriage to her small-town husband is effectively over. Alessandro Visconti, heir to Visconti Bank, is actively courting her. Both families view the union favorably. This is not merely romance, but a key strategic move for the Rossi family to escape its current crisis and perhaps even regain its former glory.**
The sources were described as shadowy—"individuals close to the Visconti family," "those familiar with the Rossi Group restructuring," even "witnesses" who claimed to have seen the couple sharing an intimate dinner at a top restaurant. The details were rich, the logic self-contained, as if the next episode of a dynastic saga had been prematurely leaked.
Elisa's response to these sudden, intensifying rumors was absolute silence.
She did not confirm, deny, or explain. When cornered by reporters in public with pointed questions, she merely swept her ice-blue eyes calmly, even with a hint of weariness, over the cameras and microphones before walking away under her bodyguard's escort, leaving no words behind. In high-level internal meetings at the Group, even when someone's gaze flickered or they seemed on the verge of speaking, she appeared oblivious, focusing entirely on financial statements, supply chain data, and new market expansion plans.
Her work pace became even more rapid and efficient than before the rumors erupted. She successfully advanced investment intent negotiations with a Nordic sovereign wealth fund, stabilized the high-end North American clientele shaken by the scandal, and pushed through a controversial project to launch an innovation lab focused on sustainable materials and incubating young designers. Every public appearance still showcased the impeccable "Jewelry Queen": makeup flawless, attire signaling power and taste. The increasingly worn platinum band on her left ring finger remained, catching a quiet glint when she raised her hand to flip through documents or point at a projection screen.
The faint ripples of rumor, propelled by modern information's pervasive reach, eventually seeped into distant San Gimignano.
At first, it was just scattered talk. One day, Clara at the fruit stall, scrolling on her phone, saw a push notification from a local news feed's edge: a sensational headline from a Milan gossip column: *New Chapter in a Dynasty Saga? Damsel in Distress and Banking Prince in a Rescue Marriage.* The accompanying photo showed Elisa and Alessandro at a business gala not long ago, captured in a moment of relatively close proximity. Soon, similar speculation appeared on social media pages of bloggers focused on Italian fashion and finance. Though details were blurry, the implication was clear: Elisa Rossi's marriage was in trouble, and the Visconti heir was the most likely next step.
These internet-borne, urban-curiosity-tinged pieces of news drifted like wind-blown seeds onto the soil of the small town's daily life. Regular customers, waiting for their bread, exchanged hushed snippets of "Milan news" heard from their children or online. The town's tranquility was pierced by this distant yet intimately relevant gossip.
The looks directed at the Costa family inevitably gained new layers. Concern, pity, unspoken sympathy flowed subtly in the brief exchanges over bread purchases. Even the usually boisterous postman delivered mail with extra care.
Maria fumed in the kitchen, slamming dough and cursing the "idiots who write such nonsense." Gianluigi smoked his pipe in silence, brow furrowed, occasionally glancing toward the backyard where Lorenzo was calmly repairing an old bench, the steady, rhythmic sound of his axe falling as if the outside clamor held no relevance to him.
Sofia shut herself in her room, her face pale as she scrolled through more, increasingly detailed "analysis" and "revelations" on her phone. The words pricked her already taut nerves like cold needles. Massimo seemed agitated and confused, trying several times to speak to Lorenzo, only to fall silent under the other man's impassive, calm gaze.
At the eye of the storm, Lorenzo Costa remained preternaturally composed. He still rose early to help bake, organized files, chauffeured his siblings, and repaired household items. During the peak of the rumors, he even found time to buy new tools from the town's hardware store. When Aunt Angela couldn't hold back and tentatively offered, "If you need anything, just say the word," he merely smiled, politely thanked her, and said everything was fine.
Only those closest to him might have noticed a deeper stillness in his always-steady eyes, an absolute focus that pressed all turbulence beneath the ocean's surface. He did not discuss the rumors, offer explanations, or display anxiety. It was as if the stories fermenting online and whispered around town were truly insignificant noise from a distant horizon.
To Alessandro and his inner circle, this was Elisa's tacit signal of consent. She had finally seen reality, accepted the arrangement fate (and he) had laid out. She no longer resisted fiercely but used silence to maintain final dignity while implicitly cooperating with the steps he'd prepared. After all, she hadn't refuted it, had she? In Milan's rules, non-refutation often equaled consent.
Within Visconti Bank, assessments and quiet maneuvering to accommodate the "future lady of the house" subtly increased. Alessandro, brimming with satisfaction, lowered his guard. In his view, the quarry was in the net, merely needing time to digest "victory" and embrace a new identity. He reduced the frequency of his inquiries to the "consultants" placed within Rossi Group about Elisa's daily minutiae, focusing instead on how to integrate resources and plan the "post-marriage" business landscape. He even began considering whether to partially "deliver" on some promises—perhaps giving Andrea's case a slight nudge as a sort of "engagement gift."
However, while Alessandro's gaze was fixed on future blueprints and social flattery, the edge of Elisa's blade was being quietly tempered and drawn in unseen shadows.
Her investigation had never ceased. It had instead entered a deeper, more covert phase. She had completely altered her strategy.
She no longer relied on conventional legal channels or public information digging, methods too likely to raise alarms. She leveraged the limited but still extant access regained with her CEO position, along with the extremely small, absolutely reliable network of contacts she'd cultivated over her years at the Group.
Her chief assistant, Anna, became her sole liaison and information filter. All instructions passed through encrypted channels; all feedback was compiled and traces destroyed by Anna personally.
Under the guise of "assessing historical partnership risks" and "clarifying potential legal liabilities," she initiated a highly discreet internal audit. Its scope was precisely limited to secondary accounts and shell companies linked to Visconti Bank or its affiliates that had engaged in financial transactions around the time of the "Stella d'Europa" project but had escaped the primary investigation's notice. The team handling this audit consisted of an external independent accounting firm and two long-time employees she'd temporarily "seconded" from other departments—individuals with clean backgrounds and old family ties to her. They worked in an inconspicuous annex of the Group's main building, with strictly limited access, reporting directly to Anna.
Simultaneously, she began re-examining her father Andrea's travel records and communication archives (those stored in the family's private archives, not on corporate servers), searching for any overlooked traces of informal contact with Alessandro or his proxies. Through Anna, she even contacted a former Cambridge classmate of her father's, now an authority in international art crime research, using the pretext of "academic consultation" to indirectly inquire about the activity patterns of specific individuals in the European art-secured loan market during certain periods.
These actions were scattered, concealed, and slow-paced, like deep ocean currents: placid on the surface, yet holding the power to reshape the landscape beneath. Elisa transformed herself into a perfect decoy: to Alessandro and the outside world, she was the woman gradually accepting her marital fate and single-mindedly saving the family business. On the dark side known only to her and Anna, she was a cool hunter, meticulously weaving a net strong enough to counter, even ensnare, her opponent.
She still had not contacted San Gimignano. Not once.
That place held all her vulnerabilities and was where Alessandro's gaze occasionally lingered. Any unusual contact could shatter the delicate balance she maintained, triggering suspicion. She had to believe that Lorenzo understood the weight of this silence, that he could hold that line.
Milan's nights remained as brilliantly lit as ever. Elisa stood before her office's floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the city she had once conquered, lost, and was now re-engaging with on entirely different terms. The window glass reflected her cool and resolute face and the faint gleam of silver on her ring finger.
Rumors were the fog. Silence was the armor. And the true edge of the blade was often honed in the deepest quiet, awaiting the moment for a single, decisive strike. Alessandro thought the rumors he'd spread were the hunting horn's call. He did not realize they might also be the lullaby lulling him into complacency.