Time drifted by, heavy and slow, marked only by the sterile scent of disinfectant and the rhythmic, persistent ticking of hospital machinery.
The private suite was bathed in a hushed stillness. The curtains were half-drawn, filtering out the harsh midday sun. On the bed, Lorenzo Costa lay motionless, tethered to a network of monitors. The jagged lines on the screens rose and fell with steady precision—proof of life, yet devoid of conscious will. His face remained pale, but the ghastly, ashen grey that had haunted him after surgery had finally begun to fade into something more human.
Elisa Rossi sat in a chair by the bedside. Dressed in a soft beige cashmere sweater, her long hair was tied back in a simple knot. Her face was bare of makeup, with faint shadows under her eyes—marks of the sleepless days and relentless worry she had endured. She held a glass of water that had long since turned cold, her gaze fixed unblinkingly on Lorenzo's quiet features, as if memorizing every subtle contour of his face.
On the wall, the television was on with the volume muted. Midday news flashed images of Alessandro Visconti being officially arrested, handcuffed, and led into a police cruiser. He was a shell of his former self, his expression haggard, his eyes vacant. The anchor's voice droned on: "...Visconti Bank is under joint investigation by the Bank of Italy and European financial regulators for multiple counts of financial malpractice and market manipulation. Shares have plummeted for consecutive days... Several executives from 'Lux Europa' Capital have also been detained as the fraud and conspiracy charges related to the Rossi Group's 'Europa Star' project deepen..."
The scene cut to Andrea Rossi stepping out of an investigative bureau, flanked by his lawyer, Damian. He looked thinner but composed. Facing the cameras, he offered only a slight nod before disappearing into a waiting car. The anchor added: "Mr. Andrea Rossi, former Chairman of the Rossi Group, has been granted his freedom this morning after key evidence was proven to be forged. The primary charges against him have been dropped..."
Elisa pulled her gaze away from the screen and back to Lorenzo. She set the water glass down and reached out, with agonizing care, to clasp his hand—the one without the IV drip. It was warmer now, though still limp, resting quietly in her palm.
"Did you hear the news?" she whispered, her voice soft in the silence of the room, carrying a faint, undeniable rasp. "Alessandro has been arrested. Visconti Bank and Lux Europa are finished. The investigation is going well; Damian says the evidence is ironclad."
She paused, her thumb tracing the back of his hand in an unconscious, soothing motion.
"Papa went home this morning. Damian took him straight back to San Gimignano. He said... he needed to breathe the air of the hills and see Mama." Elisa's voice dropped an octave. "Mama... she's actually fallen in love with that place. She says the sunlight in the bakery is perfect. She likes baking with Maria; she even wants to learn how to grow her own herbs. She doesn't plan on coming back to Milan for a while."
She fell silent again before continuing, her tone a mix of relief and bittersweet reflection. "Massimo... it's like he grew up overnight. He's stopped playing those games. He told me he wants to go back and finish school, maybe study something useful for once. I've contacted a school for him; he starts next month."
"Grandfather was discharged too." She looked up, as if she could see the stubborn old man through the ceiling. "The doctors say he's recovering well, but he needs rest. I've fixed up the old villa for him—it's quieter there. He... he officially handed the Rossi Group over to me. Not as a proxy, not as a restructuring CEO, but truly, completely. All of it." She spoke the words without much joy, only a profound exhaustion. "The papers are signed and notarized. He said it's time for the 'Phoenix' to really fly, but he's too old to watch the heights. He told me to just... fly."
She squeezed his hand, as if trying to draw strength from the warmth beneath his skin.
"See? Everything... everything is getting better. The villains are being punished, Papa is cleared, Mama found her peace, my brother has grown up, and Grandfather can rest easy. The Group is back where it belongs." Her voice began to tremble, and her eyes welled with an uncontrollable red. "So... why won't you wake up?"
A tear finally escaped, rolling down her cheek and splashing onto their joined hands.
"The doctors said the surgery was a success. They got the bullet out; it missed the vitals. You lost so much blood, but they replaced it... yet you won't wake up." She leaned forward, resting her forehead against their clasped hands. Her shoulders shook as the fear, helplessness, and grief she had suppressed for so long finally broke through. "Lorenzo... you told me to trust you. I did... I handled everything. Now, please, wake up and look at me... look at all of this..."
Low sobs drifted through the room, mingling with the steady, monotonous beep of the monitors. Sunlight shifted through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
Elisa didn't know how long she cried, until her tears seemed to run dry, leaving only a dull ache in her chest. She lifted her head and wiped her face with her sleeve, her eyes swollen. She still held his hand, staring at him with a stubborn intensity, as if she could pull him back with the sheer force of her will.
Just as her vision blurred and she leaned down to listen for his breath once more—
The index finger of the hand she was holding... twitched.
It was infinitesimal—a mere flutter, like a butterfly's wing or an unconscious spark of a nerve ending.
But Elisa felt it.
Her entire body froze; her breath hitched. Her eyes widened, locked onto his hand. Her heart hammered against her ribs so violently it felt as though it might shatter them. She didn't dare move, didn't dare blink, terrified that it was just a phantom of her imagination—a cruel trick of her desperate longing.
Time seemed to solidify.
One second. Two. Three.
And then, she saw it: Lorenzo's eyelashes flickered, almost imperceptibly. It was a faint tremor, but in the breathless silence of her vigil, it was as clear as a thunderclap.