The chaos of the press conference hadn't fully simmered down when Elisa, flanked by Anna, made a break for it through the museum's side exit and into the underground parking garage. Adrenaline was still surging through her veins; the floodgates of her long-frozen emotions had cracked the moment the truth spilled out. Right now, a single, deafening thought drowned out her exhaustion and looming anxieties: Go home.
Back to San Gimignano. Now. Immediately.
On the way to her usual car, her pace quickened until she was nearly sprinting. The rhythmic clack-clack of her heels against the concrete echoed through the cavernous garage, a frantic beat of impatience.
"Keys, Anna," Elisa said, reaching out her hand, her voice a sharp command.
Anna froze. "Miss Elisa? The driver will be here any second. You need to rest, and the situation outside is still unpredictable—"
"I'm driving myself," Elisa cut her off, her ice-blue eyes flashing with an almost obsessive intensity. "I can't wait. Give me the keys." She needed to feel the steering wheel, needed to get on that road leading to the Tuscan hills. It was the only way to soothe the searing, aching hunger in her chest. She missed the warm, dry air of the bakery; she missed Maria's fussing; she missed... Lorenzo's steady eyes. She didn't want to spend another second in Milan, this city of ice and cold calculation.
Anna knew her boss well enough to realize there was no talking her down. She sighed and handed over the keys. "At least let me come with you—"
"No." Elisa was already pulling open the driver's side door. "Stay here and handle the fallout. Coordinate with the police and the lawyers. I've got this." She needed to be alone. She needed this drive to process the explosion of emotions inside her—and more than anything, she needed to return to the only sanctuary she had left.
The engine let out a low growl as the dark car slid smoothly out of its spot. Without waiting for another word from Anna, Elisa floored the gas and sped toward the exit. In the rearview mirror, Anna's worried figure shrank into a speck.
However, just as she was about to round the final row of parked cars and hit the exit ramp, a dark grey shadow lunged out from a side aisle like a viper from the tall grass.
It was the Aston Martin DB11.
Driven with a reckless, suicidal disregard for its own paintwork, it cut across her path at a jagged angle. With an ear-splitting screech of tires, it swerved and pinned the Audi's nose against the wall, missing it by less than half a meter.
Elisa's heart nearly leaped out of her throat. She slammed on the brakes, her body jerking violently forward against the seatbelt. Trembling, she looked at the driver of the other car: Alessandro Visconti.
His hair was a bird's nest, his eyes bloodshot. The face that always wore a mask of effortless elegance was now a distorted wreckage of fury and terrifying madness. His suit jacket was gone, his collar torn open, the veins in his forehead bulging. He stared at her with a gaze that was no longer that of a hunter playing with his prey, but of a man who had lost his dignity and his empire—and now only wanted to burn the world down.
"ELISA!!!" He threw open his door, practically falling out of the car. He stumbled before regaining his balance, his voice hoarse and broken. "You ruined me! You actually... how dare you do this to me!!!"
Elisa realized instantly: he was dangerous, completely unhinged. She fumbled for the door locks, her fingers shaking as she tried to shift into reverse. But Alessandro moved with the terrifying speed of a cornered beast. He lunged at her window, his fist slamming against the glass.
"Open it! Get out! You think you won?! You think you can just walk away?!" he roared, slamming his body against the door, his hands clawing at the sliver of space at the top of the window.
Fear gripped Elisa, but it was countered by a cold, sharp clarity. She couldn't stay trapped. She floored the accelerator, her car's nose grinding into the Aston Martin with a sickening metallic crunch, trying to push it aside. The heavy sports car barely budged.
The impact only served to snap the last thread of Alessandro's sanity. With a primal howl, he swung his fist at the side window.
CRASH!
The glass shattered into a thousand jagged diamonds. Elisa screamed, shielding her face. In that split second, Alessandro reached through the broken window, popped the lock from the inside, and ripped the door open.
"You're coming with me! Where do you think you're going?! You'll never see that peasant again!" He possessed the freakish strength of the truly mad, grabbing Elisa's arm and dragging her bodily from the driver's seat.
Elisa fought back, clawing at the steering wheel, hammering the horn, but the garage was deserted in the wake of the earlier chaos. Her nails raked across the back of Alessandro's hand, drawing blood, but it only stoked his rage.
"Let me go! Alessandro! You're insane!" Her screams echoed through the hollow garage, unanswered.
He wasn't listening. His mind was a landscape of burning ruins; his only desire was to destroy her. If he couldn't have her, no one would. Since she had ruined his reputation, his plans, his everything—he would ruin her. He dragged her out and practically stuffed her into the passenger seat of the Aston Martin, roughly tangling the seatbelt around her thrashing legs before slamming the door and locking it from the outside.
He vaulted into the driver's seat. The Aston Martin let out a roar like a wounded predator. Disregarding the scrapes along its side, he threw it into reverse, spun the wheel, and with a scream of burning rubber, the car rocketed out of the garage. It vanished into the Milanese evening traffic, hurtling toward a dark and uncertain horizon.
Elisa's mangled car was left alone in the shadows, its door hanging open and glass glittering on the floor—a silent witness to the violence.
In the Milanese suburbs, on a road leading to the highway.
Lorenzo's car wove through traffic with stubborn persistence. Ever since he left San Gimignano, the knot of dread in his stomach had only tightened. He kept dialing Elisa's number, but it went straight to voicemail every time. This was wrong. Terribly wrong.
He called Anna instead. It rang for an eternity before she picked up, the background noise a mess of sirens and shouting.
"Anna! Where's Elisa? Where is she?" Lorenzo's voice was taut with panic.
"Mr. Costa? I... we've lost her!" Anna's voice was thick with tears. "She drove off on her own! We couldn't reach her, and then we tracked her GPS. Her car is still in the museum garage, but she's gone! There are signs of a struggle... the window was smashed! The police are here, but—"
Lorenzo's heart turned to lead. He slammed on the brakes, swerving to the shoulder. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel. Alessandro! It had to be him! That lunatic!
"Send me the address! Now!" He forced the words through gritted teeth.
The moment the address flashed on his screen, Lorenzo pulled a hard U-turn and floored it back toward the city. Fear flooded him like ice water. He couldn't bear to think about what a broken, desperate Alessandro might do to her.
By the time he reached the garage, the area was cordoned off. Anna was pale as a ghost, repeating her story to the officers. Lorenzo forced himself to stay calm, questioning anyone nearby, but he got nothing. The police said they were pulling security footage, but it would take time.
Time... Lorenzo felt like he was suffocating. Every minute was a death sentence. He stared at the shattered car, seeing the remnants of Elisa's last stand. A sense of powerlessness nearly tore him apart.
But just as he stood there in the cold garage, his mind racing through dead ends, the phone in his pocket vibrated.
A masked Milanese number.
Lorenzo answered immediately. He didn't speak.
A young woman's voice came through the line, low, frantic, and breathless.
"Is this Mr. Costa? It's Isabella Visconti—Alessandro's sister. Listen, I know where she is. My brother... he's completely lost it. He took Elisa to our old boathouse, the abandoned one below the Bellagio cliffs at Lake Como. The address is... Go! Now! But be careful—he's alone, he's dangerous, and there's no telling what he'll do!"
The line went dead.
Lorenzo didn't hesitate. Isabella's words were a torch in the dark. Lake Como. Bellagio. The old boathouse.
He sprinted back to his car. The engine roared to life, and the car shot out of the garage like an arrow from a bow, heading toward Lake Como—toward the night where danger and hope lay intertwined.