Perspective: Beatrice Medici
Beatrice pressed the stem of her glass between her fingers, the fine crystal chiming with a faint, almost imperceptible sound — the only sign of her impatience.
She watched the stage with a gaze that blended calculation and disbelief.
Every word spilling from Pablo Ricci's mouth sounded like a carefully wrapped provocation, coated in rhetorical varnish.
It was a spectacle of vanity — one she knew all too well.
Men like Pablo thrived on applause, and for reasons that defied logic, they seemed to believe every clap equaled power.
But what bothered her most wasn't him.
It was the way the entire room accepted the performance without noticing how ridiculous it was.
The audience — lawyers, investors, and company directors who should've known better — laughed, commented, and treated that "surprise debate" as light entertainment.
No one questioned how Alessio Leone's name had made it into the program without prior notice.
No one realized that the "randomly chosen topic" was actually a carefully crafted social trap.
And Beatrice knew.
She knew exactly what Pablo was trying to do.
If they let the stage run unchecked, within minutes he'd turn that "debate" into his own personal courtroom.
And Alessio would be the defendant.
Her grip on the glass tightened.
The wine rippled, forming a crimson ring inside the crystal.
Part of her wanted to stand up, cross the hall, and shut down the circus right there.
She could.
A simple gesture, a sharp command — and the little theater would dissolve in seconds.
But the cost would be high.
Interrupting the event would mean publicly admitting that a Medici had been manipulated during the university's gala dinner.
It would make headlines.
And even if she disguised the maneuver as an act of "institutional defense," the fallout would inevitably splash onto the family name — and onto her.
For a moment, she considered the social math of it all.
The damage to the surname.
The reaction of shareholders.
The whispers behind closed doors.
The looks from her father's old partners.
Everything fit together like a puzzle of reputations.
And yet, deep down, the urge to see that stage burn was tempting.
She took a slow breath.
Cold reasoning won over impulse.
For now.
But then something happened.
Beatrice, who had already leaned forward — ready to signal the tech crew and cut the broadcast — noticed something strange.
Alessio didn't seem to need any help.
She watched him adjust the microphone, posture impeccable, expression calm.
There was no panic, no discomfort, not even a hint of haste.
There was a serenity that bordered on unnatural — the kind of calm that didn't fit someone caught in a trap.
She blinked, uncertain she was seeing it right.
He wasn't reacting.
He was… analyzing.
Every inflated phrase from Pablo, every mention of "legal morality" and "the threat of machines," was being absorbed by Alessio as if it were raw material to be repurposed.
Beatrice could see it — in his eyes — the exact moment the pieces fell into place.
And then, what had started as a trap began to turn into a stage.
A shiver ran down her neck.
Because in that instant, she understood: he wasn't defending himself.
He was preparing to strike back.
And what came next…
well, calling it a "debate" would've been an insult to the word itself.
Pablo began his speech with the enthusiasm of someone convinced he was in control.
He spoke loudly, dramatized, moved his hands like a conductor.
But as the sentences piled up, Beatrice could see the confident shine in his eyes start to fade.
The rehearsed expressions gave way to short pauses, rushed corrections, and a stiffness that betrayed the fear of slipping.
Meanwhile, Alessio didn't move.
Body slightly leaning forward, expression neutral, eyes steady — like a machine calibrating data before execution.
The audience saw a man listening.
Beatrice saw a mind computing.
And when the microphone finally passed to him…
the entire hall changed temperature.
Beatrice didn't even breathe.
Because deep down, she knew what was about to happen.
She knew her "little robot," as she liked to call him in silence, wasn't just going to reply.
He was about to rebuild the entire stage — word by word.
And for some reason she couldn't explain, that thought made her smile.
Beatrice had always believed there was a limit to human embarrassment — that at some point, even the foolish would recognize the moment to retreat, the instant to preserve the scraps of dignity left.
But Pablo Ricci seemed determined to prove her wrong.
The debate had lasted barely five minutes, and in that short span, Beatrice witnessed something that bordered on the surreal.
It wasn't a contest.
It was a dissection — cold, methodical, almost clinical.
Alessio spoke like a man writing with a scalpel.
Each of Pablo's arguments was opened, examined, and handed back to the audience like a dissected body under white light.
There was no rudeness, no raised voice — only precision.
A precision so sharp it bordered on cruelty.
And that was what made the scene hypnotic.
Beatrice watched Pablo's gaze fracture, piece by piece, with every sentence Alessio delivered.
His once-confident smile had collapsed into a series of nervous tics.
His hands, once expressive, now trembled faintly on the table.
And the audience… the audience was no longer listening to him.
All eyes had shifted.
Every gaze was on Alessio.
The same man who had climbed onto the stage almost disinterestedly, as if fulfilling a social obligation, now spoke with the composure of a professor and the logic of a machine designed to win.
Beatrice recognized that mode.
That way of thinking.
She had seen it before — in internal meetings, in presentations, in investment decisions.
It was the same pattern, the same calculation mode that made her, despite everything, the only person who truly understood him.
But seeing it in public… was something else entirely.
Pablo tried to interrupt, to counter-argue.
He cited articles, mentioned cases, appealed to emotion.
But everything came out malformed beside the logical structure Alessio was building before him — a fortress made of pure reasoning.
"The problem isn't machines replacing men," Alessio said at one point, his tone steady but never arrogant.
"It's men trying to keep the monopoly on ignorance."
The silence that followed was almost sacred.
Beatrice felt it ripple through her body — a slow chill crawling up her arms.
Then came the applause — not explosive, but dense, filled with genuine admiration.
And amid that, she saw the impossible happen:
Pablo Ricci stepped back.
Literally.
He took a step away, raised his hands, as if surrendering with forced elegance.
"Well, Dr. Leone… looks like the future of law is in good hands," he said, trying to laugh.
But the sound that escaped him carried no humor.
It was the hollow laughter of someone realizing — too late — that he'd lost much more than a debate.
Beatrice stood still as Alessio gave a small nod in acknowledgment.
Nothing more.
No provocation, no follow-up comment.
Just that contained gesture that, paradoxically, said everything.
The audience reacted like a living organism.
First, the polite, restrained applause.
Then, the crescendo — a wave of sound that filled the entire hall.
Beatrice didn't join in.
She remained seated, eyes fixed on the stage, a faint, almost invisible smile curving her lips.
She didn't clap — but she felt pride.
A silent pride, the kind that needs no witnesses.
Her little robot had done more than win.
He had reconfigured the entire room.
People saw him now.
And worse for everyone — herself included — they would never forget him.
Pablo stepped off the stage first, shoulders heavy, smile broken.
Alessio followed, calm, as if nothing had happened.
Slowly, he walked down the central aisle under the sound of applause and curious eyes.
Beatrice raised her glass.
The wine caught the golden light of the chandelier, glowing like liquid blood.
"Welcome to the game, Leone," she murmured softly enough for only herself to hear.
"There's no turning back now."
And she toasted alone, while the entire hall still echoed his name.