The Rossi family's century-old estate lay beside the Monza Park on the northeastern outskirts of Milan. This autumn afternoon, the thirty-hectare private garden was transformed into a sea of white. The three thousand Ecuadorian 'Ice Queen' white roses that had adorned the church also carpeted the main path to the glass conservatory, their petals crushed underfoot, releasing a fragrance so rich it was almost suffocating.
The conservatory, built in the late 19th century, was originally a winter garden constructed by Elisa's great-grandfather for his wife. Lofty cast-iron frames supported hundreds of hand-blown glass panes, their Victorian-style embellishments casting intricate shadows in the afternoon sun. Now, this glass palace, capable of hosting three hundred, was filled with the most powerful faces from Milan and beyond—bankers, politicians, descendants of nobility, and the suppliers and partners attached to the Rossi empire.
Elisa entered the conservatory on Lorenzo's arm. The orchestra struck up Puccini's "O soave fanciulla." Applause surged like a wave, but this time, Elisa could clearly discern its varied textures: sincere congratulations, cautious observation, and undisguised derision.
"Ah! Our groom!" Karl Müller, Elisa's stepfather, approached with a champagne flute. He wore a Tom Ford midnight blue velvet tuxedo tonight, a large diamond pin flashing ostentatiously on his bow tie. "Lorenzo, right? Finally meeting you."
He extended a hand. Lorenzo shook it politely. Karl's palm was damp and cold, and he applied deliberate, extra pressure.
"Herr Müller." Lorenzo's voice was even, neither ingratiating nor defensive. "Thank you for being here today."
"Oh, but of course I would come!" Karl laughed, too loudly, drawing glances from nearby guests. "My dear stepdaughter's wedding! Such an occasion!"
Karl's eyes narrowed slightly as he sipped his champagne. "I hear you worked in Rome before? Palladio Partners, was it? Top-tier firm. What made you suddenly… run off to a library?"
Elisa stood to the side, her fingers lightly tracing the stem of her glass. She did not interject, merely observed. This was part of the contract—she needed to see how he performed under pressure.
"Archival science is an undervalued discipline," Lorenzo replied, still steady. "Especially in the digital age, how we preserve and interpret historical records determines how we understand the present. Palladio taught me to analyze data. The library taught me to understand context."
Karl's expression stiffened. His prepared barb stuck in his throat.
"A fascinating perspective." Alessandro Visconti appeared beside them as if from nowhere. He held a glass of neat single malt, his grey-blue eyes like the winter Mediterranean—calm on the surface, turbulent beneath. "Though I must admit, when Elisa told me her fiancé was an 'archivist,' I was indeed… surprised."
He turned to Elisa with a smile only they two understood. "Darling, you always did enjoy defying expectations."
"Life needs surprises, Alex," Elisa returned an equally impenetrable smile.
Alessandro's gaze returned to Lorenzo, this time the appraisal more naked. "So, Signor Costa, since you are so adept at 'context,' could you interpret for us vulgar businessmen what kind of 'historical record' this… union between the Ross and Costa families will produce in the future?"
The conservatory seemed to quieten for a moment. Though guests nearby continued conversing, their eyes drifted subtly toward the group.
Lorenzo took a glass of water from a passing waiter's tray—he hadn't touched alcohol all evening—and took a small sip.
"The value of a historical record lies in its authenticity," he set the glass down, his voice clear but not loud, pitched perfectly for the few who were 'coincidentally' within earshot. "And authenticity often requires time to reveal itself. However, I can offer an observation: in 15th-century Florence, the most enduring alliances were often built not on similar wealth, but on complementary values. The Medici needed the artisans' skills; the artisans needed Medici patronage. Superficial 'mismatches' can sometimes be the most stable foundation."
The smile on Alessandro's face faded slightly. He swirled his whisky, the amber liquid tracing the glass. "An interesting analogy. I hope you're not suggesting the Ross family needs 'patronage.'"
"Every great family needs to guard its legacy," Lorenzo's reply was seamless. "And legacy includes not just wealth, but memory. That is precisely the archivist's mission."
The conversation reached a perfect stalemate. Alessandro found no opening for further attack, merely inclining his head slightly, a flicker of genuine interest in his eyes—not respect for Lorenzo, but an assessment of an 'opponent's' caliber.
"Elisa," he turned to her, his tone regaining its familiar intimacy, "you have indeed found a… fascinating partner."
"I've always had good taste," Elisa tightened her grip on Lorenzo's arm.
A blend of gardenia and cool musk announced the next arrival before she appeared.
Elisa's mother, Sofia Ross Müller, glided over. She wore a sculptural ivory Elie Saab gown, the diamond necklace at her throat a modern, more flamboyant echo of Elisa's heirloom piece. Her impeccably maintained face bore a flawless smile.
"Lorenzo, is it?" Sofia's voice was melodious, yet carried a superior scrutiny. "Finally meeting the… partner Elisa chose. Truly unexpected."
"Signora Müller." Lorenzo gave a slight, perfectly correct bow.
"Oh, call me Sofia, we're family now, aren't we?" She laughed lightly, her eyes flicking to Elisa with a barely perceptible reproach. "This girl, Elisa, always so decisive. Such a big matter, and she didn't let me learn more about your family beforehand. I only know your father is a baker? Such a… quaint, lovely profession. It must be quite different from life in Milan?"
"Difference is the spice of life, Signora," Lorenzo remained unflustered. "San Gimignano's bread nourishes the body, Milan's art nourishes the soul. Both are indispensable parts of living."
"How poetic," Sofia's lips curved, but her eyes held no warmth. "Though real life involves more than poetry and bread. I hear your father is having surgery in Milan tomorrow? I hope all goes well. The medical costs… must be quite a burden. Elisa has always had a kind heart."
Elisa's fingers tightened around her champagne flute, knuckles whitening. Still, she did not speak, only her ice-blue eyes grew colder.
"Thank you for your concern. A family's health is indeed its greatest wealth." He paused, meeting Sofia's gaze directly. "Elisa and I both believe a true family supports one another. I'm grateful to be able to provide necessary support when my father needs it. That is one meaning of marriage, is it not?"
A crack finally appeared in Sofia's perfect smile.
"Of course…" she maintained her tone with effort. "The meaning of marriage… is indeed profound." She swiftly changed the subject, her eyes sweeping over Lorenzo's simple yet well-fitting tuxedo. "That Armani suits you. Is the rental service convenient? I know some excellent shops in Milan. I can give you their cards if needed. After all, there will be many more family occasions."
"The suit was arranged by Elisa. She is very thorough." Lorenzo said calmly, showing no trace of embarrassment. "As for future occasions, I believe we will make suitable choices."
Sofia studied him for a few seconds, her look reassessing this "baker's son." Finally, she produced a more standard social smile. "Very well. I hope you adapt to our… pace quickly." She patted Elisa's arm, and the couple turned and walked away, their backs still elegant but their steps slightly hurried.
No sooner had Sofia and Karl left than a languid figure shuffled over, nearly colliding with a waiter's tray.
Elisa's half-brother, Massimo Ross, sauntered up in what looked like expensive but deliberately unlaced sneakers. Wireless earbuds were in his ears, and he held his phone, its screen clearly showing a popular mobile game. He glanced at Lorenzo with the disinterest one might show a new, unremarkable piece of furniture.
"Oh, so you're the librarian my sister married?" Massimo's voice carried the casual entitlement of a spoiled adolescent. He couldn't even be bothered with a proper address. "Heard you used to be in investment banking? What, couldn't hack it?"
He didn't wait for an answer, his gaze dropping back to his phone, fingers tapping rapidly before he looked up again, seemingly talking just to pass the time.
"Massimo." Elisa's voice held a warning chill.
"What? Just asking." Massimo shrugged, his attention clearly more on the game. "But seriously, sis, with this marriage of yours… lots of people are taking bets on how long it'll last." He said this to Elisa, but his voice was loud enough for Lorenzo to hear.
Lorenzo looked at this barely-adult playboy, his face showing neither anger nor appeasement, only an almost observational calm. "Career choices often relate to personal values, not capability limits. As for other people's bets," he said mildly, "time will provide the answer, but the answer's value belongs to those living it, not the spectators."
"Whatever." Massimo waved a hand, his attention now fully captured by a game nearing its end. He turned and ambled toward a lounge area in the conservatory corner, leaving the newlyweds behind without a backward glance.
"Hey! The groom!" Marco Ross, Elisa's uncle, blocked their path with his beer belly, accompanied by three similarly flushed middle-aged men. He held not champagne, but a large glass of red wine, already half-empty.
"Uncle Marco." Elisa's tone was cool.
"Don't be so stern, my dear!" Marco boomed, the smell of wine preceding him. "I just want to meet our new family! Lorenzo, right? I hear your father's a baker? Wonderful! An honest man's trade! Much better than us lot always crunching numbers!"
He clapped Lorenzo on the shoulder, the force exaggerated, full of performative "camaraderie."
"My father takes pride in his craft," Lorenzo shifted slightly, deftly dissipating some of the impact.
"Of course, of course!" Marco's eyes darted. "But listen, son, I have to ask—working in a library now, how much do you pull in a month? Two thousand? Three thousand euros? Is it enough? In Milan, that kind of money won't even rent a decent apartment!"
Such blatant humiliation. A few ladies nearby looked embarrassed, but Marco was unfazed. He was waiting for Lorenzo's discomfort.
Lorenzo's expression remained placid. "The cost of living in San Gimignano differs from Milan's. And value isn't measured by salary alone."
"Pretty words!" Marco scoffed. "But don't worry, now that you've married Elisa, money's no object! Right, Elisa? You'll surely find our groom a respectable position? How about Procurement? I could use an assistant there. Not skilled work, but the pay's definitely better than a library!"
"Thank you for the offer, Signor Ross." His tone was polite but distant. "However, I'm content with my current work. The library is digitizing a set of 14th-century municipal archives. It's meaningful work. As for living," he glanced at Elisa, a gentle, quiet understanding in his look, "Elisa and I share a similar understanding of life. We both believe 'enough' isn't defined by numbers, but by whether one can protect what one values."
Marco opened his mouth, momentarily speechless. His prepared barbs caught in his throat as he suddenly realized this seemingly placid "country bumpkin" deflected every attack like supple vines—soft yet resilient, disarming him silently.
"Well said." A aged, authoritative voice came from behind the crowd.
The crowd parted automatically.
Vittorio Ross had arrived.
The eighty-two-year-old patriarch walked steadily without his cane, his deep grey bespoke suit perfect, silver hair immaculate. His presence seemed to lower the temperature in the conservatory by several degrees; even Marco instinctively subdued his wine-soaked demeanor.
"Grandfather." Elisa inclined her head slightly.
Vittorio's gaze rested on her first, those hawk-like eyes appraising for a moment before turning to Lorenzo.
"Lorenzo Costa." He stated, rather than asked.
"Signor Ross." Lorenzo gave a slight bow, respectful but not subservient.
"I heard your thoughts on archival work," Vittorio's voice was not loud, but each word carried clearly to everyone nearby. "When I was young, I also spent time in the Vatican archives studying Medici business correspondence. Many called it a waste of time. I believe understanding the past is the only way to plan the future."
Lorenzo's expression remained calm. "I agree entirely. Especially now, in an era of data overload and wisdom scarcity, historical context often provides the clearest guidance."
A faint, almost invisible curve touched the corner of Vittorio's mouth. "Andrea is very interested in the bread oven from your hometown. He's writing a paper on Renaissance-era folk baking techniques."
"My father would be happy to share his knowledge. Our oven was built by my great-grandfather. It still uses the original brick and stone construction."
"Good." Vittorio nodded, his gaze lingering on Lorenzo's face a moment longer. "Welcome to the family, Lorenzo."
"The honor is mine, sir." Lorenzo's reply remained impeccable.
Vittorio's eyes shifted to Elisa, held for a beat, then he turned and left. The crowd parted for him again.
This interlude altered the atmosphere in the conservatory. Vittorio's brief appearance and that "welcome" were like a stone dropped into a lake, sending ripples outward. The previously scrutinizing, mocking glances now held more caution and contemplation.
Elisa finally relaxed her slightly tense shoulders. She looked at Lorenzo. He was accepting a fresh glass of water from a waiter, his expression still composed.
"You're better at this than I imagined," she said quietly.
"Analyzing data, assessing risk, staying calm." Lorenzo glanced at her, a trace of something almost self-deprecating in his deep brown eyes. "It's my professional field, Elisa. Only this time, the data is living people."
Just then, Elisa's father, Andrea, finally emerged from the orchid section, his hair slightly disheveled, his tie more askew than ever.
"Lorenzo! Found you at last!" He grasped Lorenzo's hand with surprising strength. "That bread oven of your father's—does it use a particular type of clay? I've read that clay from certain areas in Tuscany contains unique minerals that affect temperature distribution in the oven, influencing the bread's flavor!"
This was likely the only question of the evening posed purely out of interest, devoid of any calculation.
Lorenzo's expression relaxed genuinely for the first time. "Yes, Signor Ross. The clay we use comes from the hills near San Gimignano. It's rich in—"
"Call me Andrea!" Elisa's father interrupted eagerly. "Come with me. I've drawn a diagram about the ventilation structure of 15th-century bread ovens. I need your expert opinion…"
He practically dragged Lorenzo away. Elisa stood watching as the two men—her husband and her father—disappeared into the crowd, passionately discussing oven construction, utterly out of place in the gilded surroundings.
She raised her champagne glass and drained it.
The icy bubbles traced her throat, bringing a stinging sense of reality.
The orchestra began playing livelier dance tunes. Guests paired off and glided onto the temporary dance floor. Alessandro Visconti was elegantly twirling some banker's daughter, but his gaze never left Elisa.
Outside the conservatory's vast glass dome, Milan's night slowly descended. The city's lights flickered on one by one, like an inverted starscape.
Lorenzo returned to Elisa's side half an hour later, having been commandeered by Andrea. His collar was slightly loosened, a trace of genuine, relaxed fatigue on his face.
"Your father's knowledge is impressive," he said. "His discourse on 17th-century milling techniques was more vivid than any academic paper I've read."
"He has passion for real things," Elisa said quietly. "Unfortunately, in this family, 'real' is often a luxury."
Elisa turned to face him. Moonlight streaming through the glass dome bathed her face, making her look like fine porcelain—beautiful and fragile.