Autumn at Lake Como is a beauty so intense it borders on melancholy. The aging villas along the shore, their colors weathered, are mirrored in the deep blue, mirror-like water. The mountains, stained gold, crimson, and ochre by the season, rise in layers like a painting with heavy brushstrokes. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of lake water, damp earth, and decaying foliage.
The Ross family's century-old villa occupies a secluded promontory in Bellagio, commanding an unparalleled view of the lake and mountains. Grey-white stone walls are densely covered with deep red ivy, resembling clotted blood in the autumn sun.
Lorenzo stood on the villa's broad gravel parking area, his simple travel bag with a change of clothes in hand. Gazing up at the building, he felt not awe at its luxury, but a heavy, oppressive weight from accumulated time and wealth. Every narrow, tall window seemed like a watchful eye.
A butler in traditional livery, his expression rigid, was already waiting by the massive oak door. "Signor Costa, please follow me. Signor Ross is expecting you in the study." His voice, like his eyes, held no warmth, only procedural deference.
Lorenzo gave a slight nod and followed him inside. He was led to a second-floor study overlooking the lake. The heavy door opened to reveal Vittorio Ross seated behind an enormous, throne-like desk, backed by a wall of books and the stunning vista beyond. The old man wore a soft, dark brown cashmere cardigan today instead of a stiff suit, but it did nothing to diminish his presence. He held a document but looked up as Lorenzo entered, those hawk-like grey-blue eyes locking onto him.
"Grandfather." Lorenzo stopped at an appropriate distance inside the room, using the form of address Elisa had instructed.
"Lorenzo." Vittorio's voice was deep and even, betraying no emotion. "Sit."
Lorenzo sat in the high-backed armchair opposite the desk, his spine naturally straight, hands resting loosely on his knees. He did not look around, his calm gaze fixed on the old man's face, waiting.
Vittorio did not speak immediately, subjecting him to that penetrating scrutiny for a full half-minute. The study was so quiet the faint crackle of logs in the fireplace and the distant hum of a motorboat on the lake were audible.
"Elisa mentioned your work with the Group's archives is progressing well," Vittorio finally began, the topic unexpectedly mundane.
"Yes. Initial categorization is complete. Pilot digitization begins next week." Lorenzo's reply was concise and specific.
"Archives… are interesting." Vittorio leaned back slowly, fingertips lightly tapping the smooth desktop. "They reveal things not visible on the surface. A fifty-year-old procurement contract might hide a three-generation relationship with a supplier; a seemingly ordinary letter might hint at an undisclosed alliance or rupture." He paused, his grey-blue eyes narrowing slightly. "What have you seen in those old papers? About the Ross family?"
Lorenzo was silent for a few seconds. "I see how a family grew from a single workshop into today's empire through five generations of effort, commitment to craft, and… necessary adaptability. Archives record decisions and outcomes, but between the lines, one can also sense the character and choices of the helmsmen of different eras."
A faint movement touched Vittorio's lips, perhaps satisfaction, perhaps deeper inquiry. "'Adaptability'… a diplomatic word. More often, it's calculation, risk-taking, sometimes ruthlessness." His gaze sharpened. "Elisa possesses these traits, even more than her father. That's why she holds her position. But you, Lorenzo? What did organizing books and archives in San Gimignano teach you? Forgiveness? Endurance? Or…"
He didn't finish, but the implication was clear: In this calculating family, is your "difference" an asset or a liability?
Lorenzo met his gaze without flinching. "Archives teach truth. Whether beautiful or ugly, the motivations behind decisions, the costs behind success, the shadows behind brilliance—all are faithfully recorded. Understanding truth is the foundation for comprehending the present and planning the future." He paused slightly. "As for forgiveness or endurance, those are personal choices. Perhaps unrelated to archives, but to a person's… inherent nature."
"Inherent nature." Vittorio repeated the phrase, savoring it. "An interesting concept. I hope yours is resilient enough to bear the… weight of this family." He shifted gears. "Dinner is at seven. Elisa should arrive soon. You may rest until then."
"Of course, Grandfather." Lorenzo stood, gave a slight bow, and withdrew from the study with composure.
The butler reappeared, guiding him to a room on the third floor. It was spacious, elegantly furnished, with a small balcony facing the lake. Lorenzo set down his bag and stepped onto the balcony. A cold lake wind greeted him.
The sound of a car engine rose from below. Soon, familiar, rapid footsteps echoed in the corridor—efficient, carrying their owner's characteristic tension. The steps paused for a moment outside Lorenzo's door, then continued, stopping at the door of the adjacent room—Elisa's.
Half an hour before dinner, Anna knocked on Lorenzo's door, delivering a freshly pressed dark blue blazer and matching shirt. "From Ms. Elisa. Dinner is on the lakeside terrace."
When Lorenzo went downstairs, the setting sun was turning the lake and the mountains opposite into a blaze of gold and crimson. The terrace was set for dinner, a long table draped in white linen, silverware and crystal glinting in the twilight. Aside from Vittorio and Andrea, others had not yet arrived.
Andrea's eyes lit up the moment he saw Lorenzo, practically hurrying over. "Lorenzo! So glad you're here! You must see what I found in a village antique shop yesterday—" He held a slightly misshapen old brass object. "This is likely a component from a late 19th-century portable drafting instrument!"
Vittorio, seated in a lounge chair at the head of the table, watched his son's enthusiasm with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, though his eyes held a complex, almost resigned warmth.
Elisa was the last to arrive. She had changed out of travel clothes into a smoky grey cashmere dress, simple in cut but exquisite, complementing her jade-like complexion, her hair loosely pinned up to reveal her graceful neck. She looked flawless, but Lorenzo saw the familiar layer of icy wariness in her eyes, sharper than at the office.
"Father. Grandfather." Her voice was toneless. Then her gaze swept to Lorenzo, a slight nod of acknowledgment—as distant as greeting a newly met business associate.
Soon, others arrived. Karl Müller entered with Sofia, both in expensive casual wear, smiling broadly but without warmth. Uncle Marco arrived with his third wife (a model younger than Elisa), laughing loudly, glass already in hand. Massimo, headphones on, scrolled through his phone, indifferent.
Alessandro Visconti was also on the guest list. He arrived alone, in perfectly tailored khakis and a navy sweater, like an elegant neighbor dropping by. His gaze found Elisa effortlessly in the crowd, a smile touching his grey-blue eyes.
"Grandfather Vittorio, Uncle Andrea." He greeted them first, impeccable manners, before turning to Elisa, his voice softening with familiarity. "Elisa, it's been too long. Autumn at Como truly is best viewed from here." He completely ignored Lorenzo standing beside Elisa.
Dinner began in an atmosphere of superficial ease masking undercurrents. Servants moved silently, serving. Conversation drifted from lakeside views and art collections toward more sensitive territory.
"Lorenzo," Sofia sipped her wine, smile gentle, "I hear you're managing archives at the Group now? Such a job requiring patience and care. It must be… quite peaceful compared to the multi-million-euro deals Elisa handles daily."
Before Lorenzo could respond, Elisa spoke first, lightly pushing food around her plate without looking up, her tone cool. "The Group's history and core data are intangible assets. Organizing them is crucial for future strategic decisions. Father always said not understanding the past leads to repeating mistakes." She invoked Andrea, deftly silencing Sofia, yet didn't glance at Lorenzo.
Andrea immediately nodded. "Exactly! Archives are vital! Lorenzo, I have some of my great-grandfather's design sketches, a complete mess. You must look at them sometime!"
Karl Müller interjected with a smile, "Andrea, don't scare off our new consultant with your 'treasures.' By the way, Lorenzo, settling into Milan alright? Heard your father's surgery went well, thank goodness. If you need anything, just say the word. We're family now, after all." His smile was hearty, but the words "family" from his lips carried a hint of condescension and reminder.
"Thank you. We're managing," Lorenzo replied, steady as ever, neither submissive nor defiant.
Uncle Marco downed a large gulp of wine, booming, "Men should do real work! What future is there in managing archives? Lorenzo, once your father's better, come to Procurement! The starting level might be low, but the… opportunities are plenty! Better than staring at moldy old paper all day!" His crude "suggestion" drew a muffled giggle from his young wife.
It was then that Alessandro seemed to finally notice Lorenzo. He dabbed his lips elegantly, smiling. "Uncle Marco, to each his own. Perhaps Lorenzo prefers the 'peace'? Not everyone is suited to Milan… or the Ross family." His tone was mild, but his meaningful glance at Elisa spoke volumes.
Elisa's fingers tightened around her wine glass. Each "concern" and "suggestion" aimed at Lorenzo scraped at her nerves and tested her reaction—and the marriage's authenticity. She had to respond, but the line was thin. Overprotecting would seem suspicious; ignoring him would confirm his isolation.
Just as she drew a breath to deliver a cool, official dismissal, Lorenzo set down his knife and fork.
He looked up, his gaze calmly sweeping over Marco and Alessandro before settling on Sofia, a faint, polite smile on his lips. "Thank you all for your suggestions and concern. Archival work does require a quiet mind, and it clarifies essentials. As for Procurement," he turned to Marco, his tone straightforward, "I heard you're leading the optimization of the Southeast Asian raw material supply chain. The recent volatility in palm oil and rubber markets must be creating significant risk management pressure. I happen to have come across some archived case studies from the Group in the 80s dealing with similar raw material crises. If you'd find a summary useful, I can have it sent over."
Marco's mouth opened, momentarily speechless. He hadn't expected this "bookworm" to know his operational pain points. Alessandro's smile faded slightly, his eyes gaining a more assessing glint.
Vittorio had been eating in silence throughout. Now he lifted his gaze, looking at Lorenzo deeply for a moment before slowly cutting another piece of veal.
Elisa's tense shoulders relaxed a barely perceptible millimeter. She raised her glass, using the motion to conceal the complex flash in her eyes—surprise, assessment, or perhaps a faint, deeply buried relief she herself wouldn't acknowledge?
The latter part of the dinner saw Vittorio steer the conversation toward vineyard harvests and an upcoming classical painting auction, temporarily avoiding the minefield. But the tension in the air did not dissipate.
After dinner, the gentlemen retired to the smoking room (except Andrea, who slipped away to study his "treasure"), while the ladies took tea in the drawing room. Elisa excused herself to handle an urgent email.
In the smoking room, Lorenzo responded politely but minimally to Karl and Marco's probing "men's talk," listening more than speaking, occasionally sipping a single malt. Vittorio sat in an armchair by the fireplace, smoking a cigar. Through the haze, his gaze occasionally settled on Lorenzo, silent and weighty.
Alessandro leaned elegantly against the bar, maintaining distance from Lorenzo yet his presence was palpable. Eventually, he approached, his voice low, for their ears only.
"Well played, Signor Costa." His smile was flawless, his eyes ice-cold. "Composed, proper, even with a touch of wit. Elisa's 'orientation' seems to have been thorough."
Lorenzo turned to face him, expression calm. "I'm not sure I follow, Signor Visconti."
"You do." Alessandro swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "You know what game this is, and your role in it. But a word of caution—no matter how immersed a stand-in actor gets, it doesn't change the script's essence. After the climax, the curtain always falls." He took a half-step closer, the scent of cedar and whisky mingling. "And in Elisa's script, the lead role has only ever had one name."
This was a naked declaration and warning.
Lorenzo looked at him, his eyes showing no ripple of anger or fear, only a calm depth. "Scripts are completed by directors and actors together, Signor Visconti. Sometimes, a stand-in's improvisation becomes the most memorable part." He raised his glass slightly. "As for who the lead is, perhaps the audience and the director have differing views."
Without waiting for Alessandro's visibly darkening expression, Lorenzo gave a polite nod and turned to leave the smoking room.
He needed air. Following a side corridor, he emerged onto an open terrace facing the lake. Night had fallen; the water was ink-black, the scattered lights from the opposite shore reflected brokenly on its surface. The wind was biting, but it brought clarity.
Soft footsteps sounded behind him. He turned. Elisa had also come onto the terrace, a thick cashmere shawl around her shoulders. She didn't approach, standing a few meters away, also gazing at the dark water. Moonlight outlined her cool, perfect profile.
They stood in silence for a moment, only the wind's moan between them.
"At dinner earlier," Elisa finally spoke, her voice carried away by the wind, "you handled that well."
It was the first time she'd directly commented on his "performance" in private, though her tone remained flat.
"Part of the arrangement," Lorenzo replied.
Another silence.
"What did Alessandro say to you?" she asked, her eyes still on the distance.
"Nothing significant. A discussion about 'scripts' and 'leading roles.'"
A faint twist touched Elisa's lips, like a cold smile or a self-mocking one. "He's always so confident." She paused, her voice dropping, almost lost to the wind. "This place… it's exhausting, isn't it?"
The question was light, yet it landed heavily. He turned to look at her. In the moonlight, the layer of ice on her face seemed thinner, revealing profound weariness beneath.
"It has its challenges," he chose his words carefully. "But manageable."
Elisa finally turned to look at him. Her ice-blue eyes were especially deep in the night, swirling with complex emotions he couldn't decipher—struggle, doubt, perhaps a flicker of seeking confirmation. "Just 'manageable'?" she asked. "Or have you already deciphered the rules of this 'family game'?"
Lorenzo didn't answer immediately. He looked out at the dark expanse of Lake Como, its depths hiding unseen shoals.
"The rules may be complex," he said slowly. "But the players' motives are often simpler than imagined." He met her gaze. "Power, profit, recognition… or simply wanting to protect what they hold important."
Elisa froze. *Protect?* That word had never entered her calculations for this marriage, for this family. She had been on the offensive, defensive, calculating gains and losses. When had she considered "protection"? What did she want to protect? The Ross empire? Yes. But that was duty, ambition, a cross she had to bear. What else?
Suddenly, she remembered the focaccia from Maria, now stale; the light in Gianluigi's eyes when he spoke of the bread oven; the inherited ring on Lorenzo's finger, inscribed *Il pane prima delle perle*.
Things she had never possessed, never even understood, seemed to exist as a matter of course in this man and the world behind him.
A stronger gust of wind swept across the terrace, lifting her hair and shawl. She shivered.
"Let's go back inside. It's cold," Lorenzo said, his tone a flat statement, yet no longer carrying the pure distance of the beginning.
Elisa glanced at him, nodded, and turned toward the warm light of the villa. Lorenzo followed half a step behind.
The terrace door closed softly, shutting out the howl of the lake wind.