Gianluigi Costa spent a week under observation at the Stanford Medical Center. His recovery was encouragingly steady, with Professor Costa declaring the surgery's results exceeded expectations. On the day of discharge, Lorenzo and his mother Maria handled the paperwork. Gianluigi insisted on walking out of the hospital entrance himself, though his steps were still somewhat unsteady.
"See, son," he stood in the thin autumn sunlight of Milan, taking a deep breath despite the city's exhaust fumes, "I can stand straight again. Once I'm back, I'll relight the oven fire."
Maria stood beside him, wiping tears, her arm tightly linked with her husband's.
Elisa had arranged a comfortable sedan to take his parents back to San Gimignano. Lorenzo watched them get into the car, waving goodbye until it merged into Milan's traffic and disappeared. Then he turned and walked toward the nearest metro station, heading for Ross Group headquarters.
The Ross Group headquarters, near Porta Garibaldi, was a skyscraper sheathed in dark glass curtain walls, designed by a renowned architect and nicknamed "The Obsidian Tower" by locals. It soared over the city of fashion and finance, a symbol of the Ross empire's unquestionable power and stark modernity.
Lorenzo, in a freshly ironed shirt and trousers (not bespoke, but clean and proper), carrying an old briefcase with his personal laptop and a few reference books, entered the gleaming lobby. The air smelled of expensive perfume and caffeine. Well-dressed men and women hurried by, their heels clicking a tense rhythm on the marble floors. Behind the reception desk, a massive screen scrolled through Ross Jewelry's latest global ads; Elisa Ross's face flashed by—cold, perfect, unreachable.
He checked in at reception, giving his name and appointment. The impeccably made-up receptionist looked up, her eyes quickly scanning him, lingering on his simple clothes and briefcase for a fraction of a second. A barely perceptible smile might have touched her lips, but professionalism kept her polite.
"Signor Costa, Strategic Development is on the thirty-seventh floor. Your temporary access card is ready, valid for two weeks. HR will contact you regarding formal onboarding." She handed over a card, her fingertips painted crimson.
"Thank you." Lorenzo took the card and walked toward the security turnstiles.
He could feel the gaze on his back, and almost hear the suppressed whispers. A stranger with an ordinary surname and simple attire, holding a temporary pass, heading to the thirty-seventh floor? Enough to pique curiosity and speculation in this hierarchical, information-sensitive place. Especially if these employees had glimpsed the news—or the gossip rags—in recent weeks. The name "Lorenzo Costa" would soon be linked to the man who had rocked Milan's social scene as "the new husband of the Ross Group CEO."
The elevator rose smoothly. Beyond the tempered glass exterior, Milan's streets gradually shrank to toy-model size. A few others in the elevator, clad in Armani or Prada, eyed him peripherally, exchanging knowing glances.
The thirty-seventh floor. The doors opened onto another expansive workspace. Open-plan desks, clean lines, breathtaking city views through massive windows. The people here looked busier, more elite.
Following the signs, Lorenzo found the "Historical Archives and Heritage Management Office" in a corner. The plaque looked new, obviously recently installed. The office was small, separated from other departments by glass partitions. Inside were several tall filing cabinets, two desks, scanners, and computers. The air held a faint scent of old paper and dust, starkly out of place in the sleek modern environment.
A bespectacled woman in her early forties looked up from behind a stack of folders—Ilaria Boldi, the department's sole permanent employee, a senior archivist.
"Signor Costa?" She stood, her expression somewhat awkward, clearly already aware of his identity—beyond his job title.
"Yes. Lorenzo Costa. Please, call me Lorenzo." He extended his hand.
Ilaria shook it lightly. "Ilaria Boldi. Welcome. Well… it's a bit chaotic here. Most of the Group's paper archives from the past century have been transferred, along with some early design sketches, contract copies, correspondence… We're working on a categorization and digitization plan." She spoke quickly, as if to cover the awkwardness. "The Director mentioned you have relevant experience as a Special Advisor… The plan requires your final review and signature."
"Let's first assess the current state together." Lorenzo set down his briefcase, removed his jacket, and rolled up his shirt sleeves, as naturally as if he were back in the San Gimignano library. He ignored the flicker of surprise in Ilaria's eyes—likely not expecting this "parachuted" special figure to dive into work so directly.
Assessing the archive's condition, setting priorities, discussing digitization standards and technology choices… Lorenzo quickly found his footing. His questions were precise, his suggestions pragmatic. His familiarity with archival preservation processes and digital metadata standards soon eased Ilaria's initial reticence and skepticism, shifting their focus to substantive work discussions.
However, the glass partitions did little to block out external gazes and sounds.
During lunch, Lorenzo went to the employee cafeteria on a lower floor. While looking for a seat with his tray, he overheard undisguised comments.
"...That's him? Looks pretty ordinary."
"Heard he worked at Palladio in Rome before. Wonder why he washed out."
"Archivist? Ha, clever placement. Can't have him actually managing business, can they?"
"Keep it down… He *is* 'her' husband, after all."
"Husband? More like a trophy husband."
"At least he's easy on the eyes. Carries himself well, doesn't seem completely clueless."
"What's the use? Has Ms. Ross even looked at him here?"
Lorenzo calmly found an empty seat by the window and began eating his simple pasta and salad. The words buzzed around him like flies, but he seemed not to hear. Part of his mind was processing the morning's archival categorization issues, part was recalling his father's straightened back upon leaving the hospital. This noise belonged to a category he didn't need to analyze or respond to.
In the afternoon, he went to the Strategic Development Director's office for a preliminary report. Director Marco Ricci was a shrewd, efficient man in his forties. His attitude toward Lorenzo was standard professional—polite, distant, with a trace of undetectable scrutiny. He briefly heard Lorenzo's work plan, expressed support, but reminded him of "limited budget, efficiency first," and "submit progress reports on time."
Leaving the director's office, at a corridor junction, he encountered Elisa.
She was walking with the CFO and two other senior executives, speaking rapidly, gestures decisive. She wore an ivory tailored suit dress, hair flawless, the sound of her signature Christian Louboutin heels sharp and authoritative. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, outlining her in a cool halo.
Lorenzo stopped and stepped aside.
Elisa's gaze swept past him, her ice-blue eyes showing no flicker of recognition, as if he were merely inconsequential corridor decor. She didn't pause, didn't even give a slight nod, continuing her discussion about a financial model for some acquisition with her colleagues, passing Lorenzo by without breaking stride, leaving only a trail of her crisp perfume.
One of the executives following her seemed to recognize Lorenzo, a flash of surprise and amusement in his eyes, but he too quickly averted his gaze and followed Elisa.
The corridor fell quiet again. Lorenzo stood for a moment, then turned and walked back to his corner office that smelled of old paper.
A few days later, an opening reception for a modern art exhibition sponsored by the Ross Group was held at the Palazzo Reale.
Lorenzo received a detailed schedule, notes, and a set of well-tailored evening attire from Anna in advance. He arrived half an hour early.
Elisa arrived slightly later. She wore a burgundy velvet one-shoulder gown, simple yet opulent, another Ross family antique diamond necklace gleaming at her throat. Her appearance instantly became the focal point; journalists, artists, sponsors, celebrities all approached.
Lorenzo stood at the periphery of the crowd, holding a glass of soda water. Until Anna approached and said quietly, "Ms. Ross would like you to join her."
He made his way through the crowd to Elisa's side. She naturally linked her arm with his, turning to give him a perfectly measured smile, her ice-blue eyes reflecting the glittering lights, yet still devoid of warmth.
"Darling, this is Antonio Bellini, this year's Golden Lion winner at the Venice Biennale." Her voice was soft, appreciative. "Antonio, this is my husband, Lorenzo."
"A pleasure, Signor Costa. Elisa tells me you have a background in historical archives? Fascinating. My own work often draws inspiration from old documents…" The artist launched into enthusiastic conversation.
Lorenzo responded appropriately, displaying good breeding and knowledge. Elisa occasionally chimed in, her smile gentle, her fingers sometimes lightly resting on his arm in small, intimate gestures—everything perfectly scripted for the "happy newlyweds."
They cut the cake together, posed for media photos. At one point, Elisa even leaned in close to Lorenzo's ear, whispering something that, from a distance, looked like a wife sharing a secret with her husband, a warm scene. Lorenzo inclined his head to listen, a gentle curve at his lips.
Only Lorenzo knew what she actually said: "The man in the grey suit to the right front is the European editor of *The Wall Street Journal*. Mind your words."
The reception lasted well into the night. Upon leaving, they were still arm in arm, smiling and waving for the cameras before getting into the same car.
The door closed, shutting out the outside world.
Elisa immediately withdrew her arm, leaning against the opposite window. The smile vanished from her face, replaced by deep weariness and coldness. She kicked off her heels, massaging her temples.
"Next Wednesday evening, family foundation dinner. At the Lake Como villa. Grandfather insists we attend." She spoke with her eyes closed, voice brittle. "Attire requirements will be sent. There might be press, but it's mostly internal. Act naturally."
"Understood," Lorenzo replied. Silence filled the car, broken only by the low hum of the engine.