Few days into the week, Standing in his tiny room, Andrea Rossi folded his school uniform carefully.
Too carefully.
The fabric was worn thin at the elbows, the crest on the pocket beginning to fade—but it was still his. Proof that he belonged somewhere beyond ovens and back doors and whispered conversations that stopped when he entered the room.
He placed it at the bottom of the drawer and closed it.
That was all.
No ceremony. No goodbye.
Just a quiet click that sounded far too final.
The decision had not been spoken aloud at first.
It had lived in looks—between Marcello and Lucia, in the way Isabella lingered in doorways, in the way the house had grown heavier with silence after the shop's "temporary closure."
Andrea had understood before anyone explained.
"I can help," he had said one evening, standing in the kitchen with his school bag still on his back. "I can work."
Lucia's face had crumpled instantly.
"No," she said. "You're a child."
"I'm in eleventh grade," Andrea replied. "That's not a child."
Isabella had turned away.
Marcello said nothing at all.
That had been the worst part.
The restaurant was called Il Verdi.
White tablecloths. Soft lighting. Men who wore watches that cost more than the Rossi family's monthly rent. Women who spoke softly but expected to be heard immediately.
Andrea wore a borrowed uniform—too large at the shoulders, too long in the sleeves.
He looked like he was pretending.
Isabella wasn't.
She moved through the dining room with quiet efficiency, posture straight, eyes lowered when necessary, voice calm even when customers weren't. She had learned this kind of composure early.
Andrea followed her lead.
"Table twelve," the manager whispered sharply. "And keep your head down."
"Yes, sir," Andrea said.
He carried plates heavier than his textbooks had ever been.
When one man waved him over without looking at his face, Andrea felt something twist in his chest.
He was supposed to be worrying about exams.
Instead, he worried about not dropping the glass.
During their break, they sat on milk crates behind the restaurant.
Andrea stared at his hands. "I had a chemistry test today."
Isabella swallowed. "I know."
"I was good at it," he said quietly. "I think I could've passed."
She nodded. "I know."
He looked up at her then—not accusing. Just tired.
"Will I go back?" he asked.
Isabella didn't answer immediately.
When she did, her voice was careful. "Yes. We'll make sure of it."
Andrea smiled, small and brave. "Okay."
But when he stood up, he limped slightly.
His shoes were new.
They hadn't softened yet.
That night, Andrea passed his old school on the bus ride home.
Lights glowed in the classrooms.
He imagined his desk. His notebook. The unfinished equation on the board.
He pressed his forehead to the glass.
"I'll come back," he whispered. "I promise."
The bus moved on.
And somewhere across the city, far removed from greasy uniforms and aching feet, decisions continued to be made by people who would never know his name.
But their weight rested on his shoulders all the same.
The next week, a bright sunny afternoon, no birds chimed, of course this was a city.
Andrea was polishing cutlery when the room shifted.
He didn't know how else to describe it.
The hum of conversation softened, chairs scraped more carefully against the floor, and the manager straightened like a man who had just remembered his place.
"Private table," someone whispered. "Be precise."
Andrea glanced up.
She sat near the window.
Elegant. Still. Untouchable.
Otilla D'Este did not look around the restaurant like it was new to her. She looked around it like it had been waiting.
Andrea's stomach tightened.
He didn't know her name.
But he knew power when he saw it.
"Table seventeen," the manager hissed. "You. Take the order."
Andrea froze. "Me?"
"You," the man repeated. "And don't speak unless spoken to."
Andrea smoothed his sleeves and approached, heart hammering.
"Good evening, miss," he said, keeping his eyes down. "May I—"
Otilla looked at him then.
Really looked.
Her gaze flicked over his too-large uniform, the faint bruise on his wrist, the way his shoulders tried—and failed—to carry confidence.
Something in her eyes sharpened.
"You're very young," she said calmly.
Andrea swallowed. "Yes, miss."
"How old?"
"sixteen."
Otilla tilted her head. "And you work here?"
"Yes, miss."
"Interesting," she murmured.
She glanced at the menu, then closed it without reading.
"I'll have the veal," she said. "Medium. And sparkling water."
Andrea nodded quickly. "Right away."
As he turned to leave, her voice stopped him.
"What's your name?"
He hesitated.
"Andrea," he said.
"Andrea," Otilla repeated, testing it. "Italian."
"Yes, miss."
"And your parents?"
His throat tightened. "They… own a pastry shop."
A pause.
Otilla smiled.
There it was.
The recognition.
"Rossi?" she asked lightly.
Andrea's breath caught.
"Yes."
Otilla leaned back in her chair, satisfied now, as if a final piece had clicked into place.
"How is your father?" she asked. "Still baking?"
Andrea nodded, confused. "Yes."
"Good," she said softly. "Family businesses are… delicate."
Andrea didn't understand the words.
But he felt the warning in them.
In the kitchen, Isabella stiffened when she saw the ticket.
Table 17 – D'Este.
Her hands trembled.
"No," she whispered. "Andrea—"
She stepped out just as Andrea returned, face pale.
"She asked about Papa," he said quietly.
Isabella's chest tightened. "Did you answer?"
"Yes."
Isabella closed her eyes.
Across the room, Otilla watched the siblings reunite, her smile slow and deliberate.
So this was the brother.
The sacrifice.
Otilla lifted her glass.
She had not gone looking for him.
But fate, it seemed, was cooperative.
And she always knew how to reward cooperation.
Especially when it came wrapped in fear.