Chapter 26: The Silk Awakening
The transition from the subconscious to reality was a violent jolt. In the dark recesses of her mind, Élise was still standing amidst the charred, skeletal remains of the Vigna del Sole, the metallic scent of old smoke filling her lungs. She could still see Donna Isabella's face a mask of aristocratic perfection lit by the haunting silver glow of the moon as she leveled a small, pearl-handled pistol at Élise's heart. The sound of the gunshot had been so loud, so final, that it seemed to vibrate in her very bones.
But as her eyes flew open, the roar of the gunshot dissolved into the rhythmic, muffled sound of rain drumming against the reinforced glass of a high-rise window.
Élise bolted upright, her breath hitching in her throat. She wasn't in a cellar. She wasn't in a vineyard. She was engulfed in the cooling, high-thread-count sheets of Adriano's master suite in his Milanese penthouse. The room was bathed in the pale, clinical light of a rainy morning, the minimalist décor sharp lines of obsidian wood and brushed steel standing as a testament to the man who owned it.
She was alone.
The side of the bed where Adriano had slept was cold, the indent in the pillow the only evidence that the "Ice CEO" had allowed himself a moment of rest beside her. The intimacy of the night before the whispered confessions, the way he had held her as if she were the only thing tethering him to the earth felt like a fragile glass sculpture in the harsh light of day.
Élise sat back against the headboard, pulling the duvet up to her chin. Her heart was still hammering against her ribs. The dream had been so vivid, a manifestation of the suffocating pressure she felt caught between the Moretti brothers. She looked at the nightstand. The singed leather satchel was there, resting beside a glass of water. It wasn't a dream. The secrets, the birth certificate for the erased Sofia, and the bitter rivalry were all terrifyingly real.
"I just wanted an internship," she whispered to the empty, cavernous room. Her voice sounded small, a ghost of the girl who had arrived from Paris with nothing but a suitcase and a dream of working in the capital of style. Now, she was the keeper of a blood feud.
She showered quickly, the hot water washing away the phantom ash of the vineyard. She dressed in one of the sleek, monochromatic outfits Adriano had provided a high-waisted black trouser and a cream silk blouse that felt like a second skin. It was the uniform of a woman who belonged in this world, even if her soul still felt like a trespasser.
She found Adriano in the kitchen, a space of white marble and professional-grade appliances that looked like it had never seen a home-cooked meal. He was standing by the window, a phone pressed to his ear, his back to her. Even in the morning, he was perfectly composed in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal the powerful forearms that had held her through her nightmares.
He ended the call as she entered, turning to face her. His eyes, usually as cold as the Arctic, softened for a fraction of a second when they landed on her.
"You're awake," he said, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "You were restless. I thought it best to let you sleep."
"I had a nightmare," she admitted, walking toward the breakfast bar where a spread of fresh fruit, pastries, and dark espresso awaited. "We were at the vineyard. Your mother... she was there."
Adriano's jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek. He didn't dismiss her fear. He walked toward her, stopping just close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from him. "The mind processes what the heart cannot. My mother is a shadow over this family, Élise. It's natural that she haunts your sleep after what you've discovered."
He sat across from her, his expression shifting from the protective lover back to the calculating strategist. He watched her for a moment as she sipped her coffee, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable.
"We cannot go back to the way things were," Adriano said suddenly. "The internship is over. Pedro has made sure of that. If you stay at the headquarters, you'll be a target for every gossip-monger in Milan and a pawn for my brother's games."
Élise set her cup down, her gaze steady. "I told you last night, Adriano. I won't be a prisoner. I won't stay in this penthouse while you go out and fight a war. I came here to build something of my own."
Adriano leaned back, his eyes narrowing in thought. "I know. And I have no intention of stifling you. So, tell me, Élise. Forget the fumbled papers and the filing. What is your true passion? What is it about this industry that makes you want to stay in a city that has tried to swallow you whole?"
Élise felt a spark of the old fire the ambition that had driven her to leave France. "Fashion. Not the spreadsheets or the marketing, Adriano. I love the construction. I love the way a silhouette can change the way a woman moves. I want to create things that are beautiful and resilient. Like armor, but made of silk."
A slow, rare smirk touched Adriano's lips. It wasn't the cold smile he gave the board members; it was a look of genuine intrigue. "Armor made of silk. That's a powerful vision."
He reached for his tablet, tapping a few keys before sliding it across the marble toward her. On the screen was the logo for L'Anima, a boutique design house that had been under the Moretti umbrella for decades but had recently fallen into obscurity.
"This was my sister's favorite brand," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "It's small, quiet, and currently failing because it has no soul. I want you to be its Creative Consultant. You'll have your own studio, away from the main headquarters. You'll report only to me."
Élise's breath caught. "Creative Consultant? Adriano, I'm twenty-three. I haven't even finished my degree."
"I don't care about your degree," he countered, his voice firm. "I care about your eye. And I care about keeping you in a place where I can protect you without locking you away. At L'Anima, you'll be the boss. You'll have the resources of the Moretti Group, but the freedom of an artist."
Before Élise could respond, a sharp ping resonated from Adriano's phone on the counter. He glanced at it, and the warmth in his face vanished instantly, replaced by the mask of ice.
"An email?" Élise asked, sensing the shift in temperature.
"From my mother's office," Adriano said, his voice clipped. "It seems the 'Moretti tradition' cannot be ignored, even in the middle of a crisis. There is a formal dinner tonight at the Palazzo Reale. A charity gala."
He looked at her, his eyes dark with something approaching regret. "I am expected to attend. With Lucia."
The name felt like a splash of cold water. Lucia the woman his mother had chosen for him, the socialite who represented everything Élise was not.
"I see," Élise said, her voice tightening. She looked down at her coffee, the dream of the "armor made of silk" suddenly feeling very far away. "The Italian Tycoon must play his part."
Adriano stood up, walking around the bar until he was standing directly behind her. He leaned down, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. "It is a performance, Élise. Nothing more. Lucia is a political necessity until I can dismantle the arrangements my mother has made. But while I am at that dinner, playing the role of the dutiful son, you will be at L'Anima. My security will take you there this afternoon."
He turned her chin with his thumb, forcing her to look at him. "Do not let the dinner distract you. Tonight, Lucia will have my arm. But you... you have the Moretti secrets. And you have me."
"And what about Pedro?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "He won't just let me walk into a new job."
"Pedro is being dealt with," Adriano said darkly. "He thinks he has the upper hand because of that satchel, but he forgets that I am the one who controls the vaults. Go to the studio, Élise. Start your work. Build your armor. We are going to need it."
Later that afternoon, a black town car with tinted windows arrived to whisk Élise away from the penthouse. As she watched the historic buildings of Milan flash by, she felt a strange mix of exhilaration and dread. She was no longer the silent intern; she was being positioned as a player on the board.
The studio for L'Anima was located in a converted warehouse in the Brera district. It was stunning flooded with natural light, filled with rolls of the finest Italian fabrics, and staffed by a small, skeptical team of seamstresses who looked at her with narrow eyes.
"The new consultant," one of them whispered in rapid Italian. "The one the CEO found."
Élise ignored the whispers. She walked to the center of the room, her hands skimming over a bolt of deep emerald velvet. This was her world. This was where she could find her voice.
But as the sun began to set over the city, her mind drifted back to the Palazzo Reale. She imagined Adriano in a tuxedo, standing beside the glowing, perfect Lucia. She imagined the cameras flashing, the whispers of the elite, and Donna Isabella watching from the head of the table like a queen on a throne.
She realized then that Adriano's "protection" came with a price. He was giving her a career, yes, but he was also keeping her in the shadows while he walked in the light with another woman.
She picked up a pair of shears, the cold steel heavy in her hand. If she was going to stay in this game, she wouldn't stay in the shadows for long. She looked at the emerald velvet and began to cut. If Adriano wanted her to build armor, she would start tonight.
But as she worked, a small, unmarked envelope was slid under the studio door.
Élise dropped the shears and walked over, picking it up. Inside was a single card with the Moretti crest and a handwritten note in a sprawling, familiar script.
"He gave you a studio to keep you busy while he dines with his future wife. Come to the Palazzo, Élise. See the 'performance' for yourself. I'll be waiting at the side entrance. — P."
The shears felt heavier than ever. The dream of the gunshot echoed in her mind. Pedro was inviting her to the lion's den, and Adriano was already inside.
The choice was hers: Stay in the safety of the silk, or walk into the fire.