Alessio Leone's Perspective
Beatrice didn't look well.From the moment Lorenzo appeared, something inside her had visibly broken.The face that, moments before, radiated that usual confidence and composure was now pale.Her shoulders were tense, her gaze distant — as if even the simple act of breathing had become an effort.
As the car glided through the streets, the steady hum of the engine was the only thing filling the silence between us.I watched her from the corner of my eye.Her hands — normally steady — trembled slightly on the steering wheel.Her lips were parted, as though she wanted to say something, but couldn't decide where to begin.
There was no doubt: she was collapsing inwardly.
And although my rational mind screamed not to get involved, to keep my distance and stay focused, there was something in me that couldn't ignore her state.What had Lorenzo di Rossi done to her?
I knew that man well enough to know that nothing good could come from his presence.In my previous life, he had left trails wherever he went — trails of silent destruction, always disguised beneath courtesy and social status.He was the kind of person who corrupted without ever dirtying his hands.
So, I didn't need an explanation to understand that the reason behind Beatrice's breakdown had a name and a face.
But I also knew pressing her now would be useless.It wasn't the time to ask for answers.She was reacting purely by instinct — fleeing, quite literally, from something that terrified her.
So I stayed quiet.I let her drive.I let her breathe.I let her mind find some fragile form of balance.
The hum of the engine mixed with the faint drone of the city.The late-afternoon light streamed through the windows, tracing golden lines across the dashboard.Her eyes remained fixed on the road, and for long seconds it felt as though nothing else existed in the world but the asphalt ahead.
Then, finally, her voice broke the silence.
"I'm sorry…" she said, her tone soft, almost a whisper. "I started driving without thinking. I'll take you back to campus."
The words were shaky, but sincere.The kind of apology born not from formality, but from confusion.She seemed to be trying to recover herself, to regain the control she had lost.
Curiously, that effort only made her seem even more human.For a moment, a small smile escaped me — brief, restrained.There was something almost… endearing about the way Beatrice Medici, the woman who always exuded power and command, suddenly looked lost.
I waited a few seconds before replying.I watched her reflection in the window — her delicate profile, her concentrated gaze, the tension in her lips.
"Was that your house?" I asked finally.
The question came out calm, though laced with genuine curiosity.Not from intrusion, but because, for the first time, I genuinely wanted to understand what lay behind her panic.
And as I waited for her answer, I realized how rarely Beatrice seemed so vulnerable — and how that vulnerability, unexpectedly, made her more real than ever.
"Yes…" she said softly, her voice tinged with embarrassment.
The confession came with a slight turn of her head, as if admitting something too personal.Her fingertips brushed lightly over the wheel — a small movement that betrayed both nervousness and the effort to recompose herself.
I looked out the window again, recalling the place: the golden gate, the carved crest, the perfectly symmetrical garden.Everything about it radiated nobility and tradition.It was the kind of home that didn't need to declare power — it was power itself.
"It's beautiful," I said, almost without thinking.
The phrase slipped out naturally, simple and honest.After all, how could it be otherwise? The residence of one of Italy's most influential families could never be anything less than magnificent.
Beatrice smiled faintly, her eyes returning to the road ahead.
"Thank you," she said.
Her voice carried a softer tone now — something less tense, almost… human.For the first time since Lorenzo had appeared, she seemed to relax.
I took advantage of that brief interval of calm to say what I truly wanted to.
"I'm sorry for stepping in earlier," I began, trying to keep my tone neutral, though firmness slipped through. "It's just that… that guy didn't look good."
The memory of Lorenzo's face made my fingers tighten for a moment.Even without knowing him closely in this life, I knew his kind.That arrogant stare, that smug smile — it was all the same.The shadow of the Rossi name always had the same shape.
I turned back to Beatrice, more composed.
"Still, I hope I didn't overstep," I added, trying to close the subject politely.
She was silent for a brief moment.Then, unexpectedly, she smiled.
Not the practiced, elegant, social smile I'd seen countless times.Something different.
A real smile.Simple, calm… beautiful.
For an instant, time seemed to slow.The light of the setting sun entered at an angle through the windshield, and as it descended, it bathed Beatrice's golden hair in a soft, molten glow — like strands of polished metal catching fire under the fading day.It was an almost hypnotic sight — the perfect contrast between her fair skin and that warm light dancing with every slight movement of her head.
The smile softened her entire face.The tension in her features melted away, and her eyes — blue, deep, serene — gained a subtle gleam, something that blended relief with gratitude.The delicate curve of her lips, usually set in controlled, neutral expressions, now revealed a rare sweetness — sincere, almost shy.
There was something about that smile that made it impossible not to look.The kind of beauty that didn't rely on artifice, but on truth — as if, for a brief moment, the weight of the Medici name and all its social masks had simply disappeared.
The sun's light continued to slide through the glass, spreading golden reflections over her face and the pale fabric of her blouse, which now seemed to shimmer under the warm hue of evening.Beatrice blinked slowly, her long lashes casting faint shadows across her skin — and the smile remained there, small but enough to transform the entire atmosphere inside the car.
And I, unintentionally, fell silent.Just watching — as if I'd just witnessed a scene that wouldn't repeat itself.A rare crack in the marble wall of perfection and coldness she had built around herself.
A true smile.Simple, calm… and, to my own surprise, impossibly beautiful.
"Not good is too kind a word for him," she said, looking out the window, her voice distant — as if her mind brushed against old memories.
Then she turned back to me, her expression serene, but resolute.
"And if you want, you can stand between me and him anytime."She paused, the corner of her lips lifting slightly."I'd even thank you for it."
Her words caught me off guard — but I didn't need to think before replying.
"Well… in that case, it would be my pleasure."
I spoke without weighing the words, but they were nothing but the truth.
If I could make Lorenzo di Rossi even slightly uncomfortable — or better yet, miserable — just by standing at Beatrice's side, that alone would be enough.
A simple mission — and without a doubt, an extremely enjoyable one.