The Rossi estate had stood for a century, its stone façade mottled by time into varying shades of grey. The top-floor suite had been vacant for years. Though the staff dusted it weekly, a sense of prolonged emptiness lingered—in the too-smooth bedspread, the overly clean fireplace, the faint scent of old wood in the air.
The head steward, Malcolm, directed two young maids as they arranged the rooms with the delicate care of handling antiques. Elisa's clothes were hung with precision in the dressing room, her tailored suits ordered by color, shoes aligned perfectly. Everything unfolded with the Rossis' characteristic, almost rigid order.
Lorenzo's belongings arrived in the afternoon: just two suitcases, so few the young porter looked surprised. Books occupied most of the space—hardcover volumes with worn, frayed edges. The heaviest set, *Flora of Tuscany*, he placed himself on the middle shelf by the window, beside several art history texts. It looked as if it had always been there.
As he shelved the last stack, he heard footsteps pause outside his door, followed by three light, hesitant knocks.
Andrea stood in the hallway under the soft glow of a sconce, his hair ruffled, glasses askew. He clutched a few crumpled pages tightly.
"Found you at last!" he whispered, the excitement barely contained as he slipped inside. "Look at this—I've been sitting on it all afternoon. A diary from a Florentine goldsmith's apprentice in the early 1800s. He mentions his master using a 'yellow stone from Siena' for inlay work, but Siena didn't produce suitable topaz at the time! I've checked all the mining records. There's only one possibility…"
He thrust the pages into Lorenzo's hands, jabbing at a line of faded Italian script, his finger trembling slightly.
Lorenzo took the papers. They were photocopies, the cursive script blurred and crowded. He moved to the window, studying them in the fading light.
"Look here," he pointed to a connected stroke. "If the nib was split, this initial 's' could easily be misread. And…" He pulled a heavy reference volume from the newly arranged shelves, flipping quickly. "According to this 1798 customs record for mineral trade in Tuscany, small quantities of yellow tourmaline did pass through Siena. It was low-grade, inexpensive—likely used as a substitute in workshops."
Andrea leaned in, his face almost touching the page. After a long moment, he straightened with a heavy, relieved sigh.
"I knew it!" He clapped Lorenzo's shoulder, his glasses sliding further. "The archive team said I was imagining things—'no direct documentary evidence.' Documents? History is alive! You have to *smell* what's between the lines!"
He pulled a leather-bound notebook from his pocket, scribbling furiously, muttering to himself. Only when finished did he seem to notice the room, his expression turning sheepish. "Look at me, putting you to work the moment you arrive. The room… is it alright? The old house gets damp in winter—keep the fireplace lit. If you need any books, just take them from my study. They're piled everywhere, help yourself!"
He rambled for another ten minutes, jumping from tourmaline deposits to Renaissance guild regulations, until the faint sounds of dinner preparations drifted upstairs and Malcolm cleared his throat at the door. Andrea left reluctantly, promising to continue after breakfast tomorrow regarding "those pigment purchase entries in the guild ledger."
The door closed, leaving the room in deep silence.
Lorenzo remained still. The sunset had faded completely. Below, he heard the faint chime of silverware and the muffled voices of staff.
He walked to the bookshelf, his fingers brushing the newly placed spines. Then he turned, surveying this temporarily assigned space: the heavy burgundy curtains, dark wood floors, the ancestor's portrait above the fireplace gazing down with stern eyes.
It all felt foreign, yet somehow inevitable.
A clear bell rang downstairs. Dinner.
He glanced out the window one last time—the city's lights flickered in the gathering dark like scattered jewels, or countless watching eyes—took a breath, adjusted his cuff, and walked out.
His footsteps were absorbed by the thick hallway carpet, leaving no echo.
---
The dining room blazed under a crystal chandelier, its refracted light brilliant but cold. The long table was draped in stark white linen, silver and crystal arranged as if measured by a ruler.
Vittorio sat at the head, reviewing a document, not looking up at their entrance. Andrea was already seated to his left, laying a napkin across his lap. His eyes brightened when he saw Lorenzo, but a slight glance from Vittorio silenced him.
Elisa had changed into a charcoal grey cashmere dress, her hair up, revealing a slender neck. She was scrolling through her phone, her profile in the light like a perfectly carved sculpture.
The empty seat was beside her. Lorenzo pulled out the heavy wooden chair, its drag against the floor a dull scrape.
Just then, sharp heels clicked at the doorway.
Sophia entered.
She wore an ivory silk blouse and black trousers, minimalist yet visibly expensive. Pearl earrings glowed softly, her hair drawn into a flawless knot. She carried no purse, only a slender watch on her wrist.
"My apologies for the delay," she said calmly, taking a seat without waiting for a reply. A maid immediately laid her napkin and poured water.
Massimo followed, shuffling in a hooded sweatshirt, his hair disheveled. Without looking at anyone, he slumped into the seat opposite his mother and slapped his phone onto the table beside his plate.
"Massimo." Sophia's voice was low, but the room stilled.
He grimaced, reluctantly turning the phone face down.
Soup was served. The room filled only with the faint sound of spoons against porcelain.
Halfway through her bowl, Sophia set down her spoon, dabbed her lips with her napkin, and looked at Vittorio.
"Father," she began, her tone conversational, "Massimo took a business elective this term. His professor remarked on his aptitude."
Vittorio glanced up but said nothing.
Across the table, Massimo let out a soft, derisive snort.
Sophia continued as if unheard. "Since he's staying at the house now, so close to the Group, I thought… perhaps he could observe in different departments on weekends? Not a formal position, just an introduction. The young should have practical exposure."
Elisa's knife continued its even, quiet motion against her plate, slicing steak.
Andrea looked from his son to his ex-wife, opened his mouth, then quietly drank his soup instead.
"He is eighteen, not eight," Vittorio finally said, his quiet voice dropping like a stone into still water. "If he is interested, he will ask. The Group is not a playground. There is no such thing as 'just looking.'"
Sophia's smile remained fixed, but Lorenzo noticed her grip tightening on her napkin.
"Of course not," she replied, her voice still even, though less relaxed. "It's only… an opportunity. Elisa was already learning to read financial statements at his age." Her gaze flickered to Elisa, then back to Vittorio. "And there are so many capable young people in the Group now. Look at Lorenzo—he's made notable contributions in the archives already. I only thought, as a family member, Massimo shouldn't… fall too far behind."
Massimo's head jerked up, his face flushed. "Mom, do you have to—"
"Massimo." This time it was Vittorio. The single word thickened the air.
Massimo bit his lip, shot his mother a furious look, and returned to savagely cutting his meat.
"Competence is demonstrated, not displayed," Vittorio set down his fork, lifting his wine glass but not drinking, slowly turning the stem. "Elisa came to me with a business plan. Lorenzo identified an issue within his responsibilities." His eyes rested on Massimo. "And you? What have you brought me? Besides complaints."
Massimo's face reddened further. He opened his mouth but found no words.
A crack finally appeared in Sophia's composure, something sharp flashing beneath the polished surface. She recovered quickly, offering a thin smile. "You're right. I'm impatient." Her voice softened. "A mother always hopes her child will rise to the occasion."
The second half of the meal passed in taut silence. Sophia ate elegantly, each movement textbook-perfect. Massimo ate quickly, clearly eager to escape. Andrea attempted to lighten the mood, mentioning a recent lot of ancient manuscripts at auction, but no one engaged. His words hung awkwardly before he fell silent.
Elisa said nothing. She ate little, mostly sipping water, her eyes fixed on the intricate embroidery of the tablecloth as if counting the stitches.
When dessert was served, Sophia rose, citing other engagements. Massimo immediately stood, his chair scraping loudly.
"I'll see you out," Elisa said, placing her napkin on the table.
Mother and daughter left the dining room, their heels echoing down the hall—one steady and measured, the other rushed.
Three men remained. Vittorio finished his dessert deliberately, wiped his hands, and looked at Andrea. "The manuscript appraisal tomorrow. Don't be late."
"Yes, yes, of course," Andrea nodded.
Vittorio's gaze shifted to Lorenzo, held for a few seconds, and then he left without another word.
Andrea waited for his father's footsteps to fade before exhaling. He leaned toward Lorenzo, lowering his voice. "Sophia… she's always been this way. About Massimo, she can't let go." He shook his head. "Sometimes I think she's not pushing him—she's pushing herself."
Lorenzo said nothing. He remembered Sophia's knuckles, white around her napkin, and that flash of something almost like pain when her mask had slipped.
Elisa returned quickly. Her expression was colder, her lips a tight line. She paused at the doorway. "Father, I'm tired. I'll retire for the evening."
"Of course, rest well," Andrea said quickly.
Elisa's gaze passed over Lorenzo—so briefly it might have been missed—before she turned toward the stairs.
Lorenzo stayed a few minutes longer, listening to Andrea detail the next day's appraisal, then excused himself.
On the third floor, the hallway was dimly lit by sconces. His room was at the end. Passing Elisa's door, he saw no light beneath it.
Inside his room, only a reading lamp was on, casting a warm pool over the desk. Outside, Milan lay wrapped in deep night, the distant church spire pale in the moonlight.
He walked to the bookshelf, his eyes moving over the newly placed volumes before settling on *Flora of Tuscany*. Its leather cover looked warm in the lamplight.
From somewhere below came the scattered notes of a piano, likely a servant brushing against the keys—a brief, dissonant sound, then silence again.
The old house settled back into its customary, heavy quiet. But Lorenzo knew something had shifted. Sophia's appearance tonight, her carefully chosen words, Elisa's icy profile as she left—these fragments were forming a map far more complex than any archival record.
He stood by the window, watching the sleeping city. This silence was nothing like the nights in San Gimignano, where the quiet was peaceful, filled with crickets and distant wind through fields. Here, the silence felt like a layer of thin ice.
Behind him, the desk lamp glowed warmly. The heavy books from home stood firmly on the shelf—a small, steady anchor.
He stood there a long time, until the church bell tolled ten. Then he turned off the light, letting the room merge with the darkness outside.