Otilla did not leave the restaurant immediately.
She lingered.
Power always lingered—long enough to be noticed, never long enough to be questioned.
She watched Andrea move between tables, his steps careful, his back already bent by a weight he was too young to name. She watched Isabella correct a place setting with hands that shook only once.
Good.
They were paying attention.
When the check arrived, Otilla signed it without looking at the amount. She stood, adjusted her coat, and spoke softly to the manager as she passed.
"Your staff," she said pleasantly, "are… young."
The manager smiled nervously. "We value enthusiasm, Signorina."
"See that you value discretion more," Otilla replied.
She left.
By morning, the consequences began.
The call came before sunrise.
Marcello answered, voice thick with sleep.
"Yes?"
"This is the municipal health office," a man said briskly. "We're following up on your recent inspection."
Marcello's heart dropped.
"There's been a complaint," the man continued. "Regarding unsafe practices. Child labor."
Marcello sat upright. "What? That's impossible."
"Your son," the man said. "Working in a restaurant. While underage. While your shop is under review."
Marcello's hands shook. "He helps his sister. We had no choice—"
"You'll receive formal notice today," the voice cut in. "Any further violations will result in permanent closure. Possibly worse."
The line went dead.
Marcello stared at the phone.
At Il Verdi, the manager's smile was gone.
"Who is she?" he demanded in a whisper, cornering Isabella near the storeroom. "What did you people do?"
Isabella's heart raced. "We did nothing."
"Well, someone complained," he snapped. "Someone important."
He glanced at Andrea, who stood frozen by the door.
"I can't have this," the manager said. "Effective immediately, the boy is off the schedule."
Andrea's face drained. "I—I can work nights—"
"No," the man said. "You can leave."
Isabella stepped forward. "Please. He needs—"
"Leave," the manager repeated.
Andrea removed his apron slowly.
He folded it.
Too carefully.
Otilla sat in the back seat of her car as the city passed by.
"Good," she said, listening to the report through her phone. "Then it's done."
A pause.
"No," she added calmly. "Not all of it."
She stared out the window, eyes distant.
"They need to understand that help is a privilege," Otilla said. "And survival—" she smiled faintly, "—is conditional."
She ended the call.
That evening, Isabella found Andrea sitting on the apartment steps.
He didn't look up.
"I messed everything up," he said quietly.
Isabella sat beside him, pulling him close.
"No," she whispered fiercely. "You did nothing wrong."
Above them, the city lights flickered on.
And somewhere behind stone walls and iron gates, Otilla D'Este considered her work.
She had not raised her voice.
She had not dirtied her hands.
Yet a family had been pushed closer to the edge.
That was how true power moved—
Silently.
Decisively.
Without mercy.