At the top of the Ross Group headquarters on Milan's Via Monte Napoleone, Elisa Rossi had just concluded a four-hour Asia-Pacific strategy meeting. She stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing down at the bustling crowds below, her fingertips unconsciously tracing the antique bracelet on her wrist—a symbol of family inheritance. A masterpiece by a 19th-century Florentine goldsmith, golden grapevines twined around a twenty-carat Burmese ruby. Sunlight refracted off the gem's facets like flames, mirroring the ambition burning in her eyes.
"Miss Elisa, Avvocato Fabrizio has arrived," her assistant, Anna, softly reminded her.
Elisa turned and walked toward the conference room, her seven-centimeter Christian Louboutin heels tapping a cool, steady rhythm on the marble floor. Twenty-eight years old, the youngest top graduate from Bocconi Business School, appointed CEO of the Group at twenty-three amid crisis, increasing revenue by 42% and doubling the stock price in five years—*The Financial Times* called her "the sharpest business mind on the Apennine Peninsula."
Yet, in the power pyramid of the Ross empire, she was only on the third tier.
At the apex was her grandfather, Vittorio Rossi. The eighty-two-year-old family patriarch still held 43% of the Group's shares and wielded final veto power. He lived in a century-old villa on Lake Como, listening to reports via encrypted video calls each week, his hawk-like eyes capable of seeing through any number games on a financial report.
The second tier was her father, Andrea Rossi. The nominal Group Chairman, but in reality… a scholar. A gentleman who graduated from Cambridge with a degree in Art History, he had no interest in numbers or corporate warfare, spending most of his time at the family foundation studying Renaissance jewelry techniques. His office was piled with ancient texts and mineral specimens; financial reports often waited a month for his signature.
And Elisa, the woman actually steering the empire's daily operations, faced an unstable throne due to a family trust clause established seventy years ago.
"Clause Four," the family lawyer, Fabrizio, pushed a parchment document toward her, his eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses professionally grave. "You must enter into a legal marriage and maintain it for at least three years before turning thirty. Otherwise, approximately 28% of the Group's total Class B shares will automatically transfer to the custody of the 'Family Guardianship Committee.'"
"And the committee is currently led by my uncle, Marco," Elisa's voice was like a winter Alpine stream, cold and clear. "It took me five years to clean out the parasites Uncle Marco placed in the procurement department. Now, he wants to use a marriage contract to legitimately take one-third of my leverage?"
"Legally, yes," Fabrizio nodded. "Your great-grandfather's original intent was to ensure 'family stability.' In that era, marriage was indeed… the most reliable alliance."
*Alliance.* The word reminded Elisa of what Alessandro Visconti had whispered in her ear last night in the La Scala opera box.
"Elisa, we don't need to play these games." The heir to Banca Visconti's breath carried a faint scent of cedar, his grey-blue eyes gleaming with shrewdness in the dim light. "Marry me. A Ross-Visconti union would reshuffle the entire European financial sector. You can remain the Queen of Jewels, and I… will give you a true empire."
Alessandro Visconti. The perfect match, at least in everyone's eyes. The Visconti and Ross families had been close for three generations; in the social circles of Milan, Rome, and London, their names were always mentioned together. He was handsome, elegant, effortlessly at home at Davos or in *The Economist* interviews. Having vacationed together at Lake Como since childhood, skied in St. Moritz, he was always her most suitable dance partner at the Venice Biennale opening galas.
But Elisa knew him too well. She knew the calculating glimmer in his eyes when he smiled, how he wrapped ambition in gentleness, how Banca Visconti had "cooperated" with and then swallowed three family-owned businesses in the past decade. His love always came with clauses; his embraces always concealed takeover bids.
More crucially, Andrea—her commercially clueless but sentimental father—favored Alessandro, considering him "a young man worthy of Elisa." And Grandpa Vittorio, though never explicit, had repeatedly praised "that Visconti lad has backbone" at family dinners.
No. She needed a husband, but certainly not a partner, and definitely not a potential acquirer. What she needed was a shield, a nominal symbol, a clean, controllable legal entity that could be dissolved peacefully after three years.
Thus began her secret operation to find a contractual marriage partner for herself. Anna led a small team that screened over a hundred dossiers in three months, with stringent criteria: clean background, no complex social ties, transparent finances with clear needs, steady temperament without ambition, and, most importantly—utterly disconnected from Milan's glamorous and dangerous power circles.
Finally, one dossier was placed in the center of her mahogany desk.
Lorenzo Costa. Thirty-two years old. Native of San Gimignano, Tuscany, son of a baker. Dual degree in Economics and Archival Science from the University of Bologna. After graduation, joined Rome's top M&A consulting firm, "Palladio Partners," participating in six high-profile cross-border acquisitions, becoming a senior analyst by twenty-seven. Yet, four years ago, he suddenly submitted his resignation, citing "a need to organize something more real." He returned to his hometown, working as an archivist at the town library, earning less than a tenth of his previous salary.
The dossier included notes from a psychological evaluator (via anonymous third-party consultation): "Subject displays extremely high logical thinking ability and emotional stability, shows low desire for material wealth, possesses strong sense of family responsibility. Career shift appears motivated by weariness regarding business ethics."
The final page was the key medical report: Lorenzo's father, Gianluigi Costa, third-generation owner of "Pasticceria Costa" in San Gimignano, diagnosed with complex heart valve disease, requiring surgery in Milan, estimated costs far exceeding what this ordinary family could bear.
Elisa closed the dossier. Afternoon sunlight sliced through the blinds, casting alternating patterns of light and shadow across her face.
A man with top-tier business analysis skills who had voluntarily retreated. A man in urgent financial need due to family crisis yet proud. A man completely isolated from Milan's glittering world.
Perfect.
Three days later, an inconspicuous dark gray Audi entered San Gimignano. Under the pretext of "investigating Tuscan handicraft preservation projects," Elisa stepped into the medieval stone library. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, leather bindings, and the dust of ages.
She found him in the historical archives section.
Lorenzo Costa was kneeling on the floor, organizing a batch of 17th-century church property registers. He wore simple khaki trousers and a light blue Oxford shirt, the cuffs slightly dust-stained. Afternoon sun slanted through the high windows, gilding his dark brown hair. His movements were gentle and focused, as if handling fragile artifacts.
Elisa watched quietly for a moment. Then she walked forward, the sound of her heels on the ancient stone tiles unusually clear in the silence.
Lorenzo looked up.
Their eyes met.
Elisa saw his eyes up close for the first time—deep brown, like Tuscan soil saturated by autumn rain, calm, profound, devoid of the familiar flattery, calculation, or awe she was accustomed to. Only a quiet appraisal, like a scholar assessing an unfamiliar antique.
"Signor Costa?" she spoke, her voice echoing slightly in the empty archive. "I am Elisa Rossi. I would like to discuss a transaction with you."
Lorenzo slowly stood, brushing dust from his hands. He was taller than she had estimated, with broad shoulders, but his posture held no aggression.
"Signora Rossi." He gave a slight nod, his tone polite and distant. "For library donations, you may contact the director's office."
"Not a donation." Elisa took a step closer, lowering her voice. "It's regarding your father's surgery, and your… lifestyle for the next three years."
A flicker of something crossed Lorenzo's eyes for the first time. Very slight, like a pebble disturbing a still lake, but it quickly settled back into deep-pool stillness.
He looked at her for a full five seconds. Then he said, "I believe we need a more private space to talk."
They walked to a small courtyard behind the library, where a stone table sat shaded by an olive tree. It was September in Tuscany; the air carried the scent of ripe grapes and dried hay.
In ten minutes, with the precision of a boardroom presentation, Elisa outlined the transaction: a three-year marriage contract, legally notarized, with clear terms. She would cover all costs for his father's surgery at Milan's best hospital, provide funds sufficient to modernize the Costa family bakery and allow his siblings to complete their education, along with a fixed monthly "living allowance" for three years. He would need to play the role of her husband in public, attend necessary social events, sign documents, and cooperate with an uncontested divorce procedure after three years.
"Why me?" Lorenzo asked only this after listening. His fingers tapped lightly on the stone table—a habit when thinking, Elisa had read in the dossier.
"Because you are intelligent enough to understand the nature of this transaction, yet clear-headed enough not to harbor unnecessary illusions about it," Elisa's reply was cold and frank. "Because you urgently need money, but your pride won't allow you to accept charity. Because you are in San Gimignano, not Milan—meaning you don't belong to the world I wish to keep at a distance."
Lorenzo looked toward the ancient stone carvings on the courtyard wall, inscribed with a fragment from Dante's *Divine Comedy*. Sunlight moved across his profile; Elisa noticed a faint scar on his jawline—not recorded in the dossier.
"I need to discuss this with my family," he finally said.
"Of course." Elisa retrieved a prepared confidentiality agreement from her handbag. "Before you decide, please sign this. The terms include not disclosing the content of our meeting to anyone and, should the transaction proceed, adhering to a code of conduct for three years."
Lorenzo took the document, reading with astonishing speed. Five minutes later, he picked up the pen she offered and signed. His handwriting was steady and forceful, identical to the signatures on the M&A reports in the dossier.
"I will give you an answer within forty-eight hours," he said.
Elisa stood and extended her hand—her first social gesture of the day.
Lorenzo shook it. His palm was warm, dry, the pads of his fingers bearing thin calluses—marks from years of handling old paper and archive boxes.
"Whatever your decision," Elisa said, "I wish your father a swift recovery."
She turned and left, the sound of her heels gradually fading down the ancient stone corridor. Lorenzo remained standing, the confidentiality agreement trembling slightly in the Tuscan breeze.
Three days later, Elisa received the call in her Milan office.
"I agree," Lorenzo's voice came through the encrypted line, steady as stating a fact. "But with three additional conditions."
"Go on."
"First, the surgery must be arranged immediately after signing. Second, all financial transactions must go through an independent trust account; my family will not have direct contact with your lawyers or accountants. Third," he paused, "in public, I will play the role you need. But in private, please respect my family and my… boundaries."
A barely perceptible smile touched Elisa's lips. He was negotiating, in a professional, restrained manner. This only reinforced her choice.
"Deal."
A month later, in early autumn Milan, this marriage born of precise calculation commenced under the gaze of a world filled with either curiosity or derision. Meanwhile, in the Lake Como villa, Vittorio Rossi set down the newspaper whose front page featured his granddaughter's wedding photo. The old man's grey-blue eyes narrowed slightly as he murmured to the old butler beside him:
"Look into that Costa family's background. Everything."
"We already have, sir. Very clean. Ordinary family."
"Too clean," Vittorio lifted his bone china coffee cup, a hint of deeper meaning curling at the corner of his mouth. "That girl Elisa never makes a choice without reason. Tell Andrea I want to meet his new son-in-law at the family dinner this weekend."
Outside the window, the first sycamore leaf drifted slowly down, heralding Milan's transition from autumn to winter. And a long game of power, family, and true hearts had just made its first move before the throne of roses and thorns.