The Billionaire's Acquisition

Chapter 3

Sofia stood frozen in the doorway of Legno dei Rossi, the chill of the morning air seeping through her coat, but it was nothing compared to the ice spreading through her veins. The studio—her sanctuary, her birthright—lay violated. The sharp, acrid stench of spray paint clawed at her throat, mingling with the familiar, comforting scent of cedar and lemon now turned foul.

Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. Instead, she forced herself to walk deeper into the devastation. Each step echoed on the scarred wooden floor. Her fingers trembled as she reached out, tracing the deep, vicious gouges that marred her nonno’s masterpiece table—a piece he’d poured his soul into, now mutilated beyond repair.

Each scratch felt like a wound on her own heart. The beautiful, intricate inlay of a rising phoenix—their family symbol—was now a grotesque mockery, its wings torn and shattered.

Who would do this? The question screamed in her mind, louder than the silence around her. Was it a warning? A punishment for her decision? The memory of the feeling of being watched yesterday flashed in her mind, and a fresh wave of nausea hit her.

A sound from behind her—a sharp, guttural intake of breath—jolted her from thoughts. She whirled around, heart hammering, half-expecting the person who’d done this to the studio to still be there, watching her anguish.

But it was only Marco, her lead crafts-man, his heavy toolbox clattering to the floor from his slack grip. His weathered face, usually creased with smiles or concentration, was pale with a horror she had never seen there, not even when her father had passed.

“Dio mio, Sofia,” he whispered, his voice rough like sandpaper against stone. He crossed himself slowly, his eyes desperately scanning the ruin as if his faith could somehow undo it. “What… What happened here? Who could have such hatred in their heart?”

Before she could find the breath to answer, the front door flew open again with a force that made the damaged frame shudder. Alessia stood there, her apron already tied and her dark curls escaping a messy bun, her chest heaving. Her fiery spirit, usually a source of light and laughter in the workshop, now burned with pure, undiluted outrage.

“I got your text—Santa Maria!” She froze, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes, wide and disbelieving, darted from the ruined table to the hateful, blood-red graffiti. The color drained from her face. “Luca,” she spat, the name, a venomous curse that seemed to poison the air between them. “This has his jealous, petty hands all over it. I told you he wouldn’t let you go easily! This is exactly the kind of twisted s**t he’d pull!”

Marco placed a steadying hand on a workbench, his knuckles white. “We don’t know that, Alessia. We cannot accuse without proof. Jealousy makes men do stupid things, but this… this is a sickness. This is a different kind of evil.”

“Proof?” Alessia shot back, her voice rising to a fever pitch. She gestured wildly at the destruction around them. “What more proof do you need, Marco? Look around! Who else has been skulking around town for weeks, drunk on cheap wine and his own pathetic self-pity? Who else screamed at her in the market for ‘betraying’ him? He thought he owned her! He thought this studio would be his one day by default, and now that she’s married to that… that bank account, he’s lost his goddamn mind!” Her words were sharp and certain, laced with a protective fury.

Sofia’s chest tightened. Alessia’s words were a mirror to her own darkest, most immediate suspicion. She took a shaky breath, pushing down the panic and the grief that threatened to buckle her knees. She was a Rossi. This was her legacy to protect. She had to lead.

She turned to Marco, her gaze firm. “Marco, I need you to board up that broken lock with something strong. Then, assess the damage. Start with the historic pieces, especially Nonno’s table. See if… if anything can be salvaged.” The words felt like ash in her mouth.

She then looked at Alessia, who was still vibrating with anger. “Alessia, I need you on the phone. Call the clients with active commissions. Be discreet. Tell them… tell them we had a minor break-in last night and we’re reinforcing security, which will cause a slight delay. Reassure them. No details. No panic. We will handle this.”

Alessia looked like she wanted to argue further, to unleash another tirade against Luca, but a sharp, almost imperceptible look from Marco silenced her. He gave Sofia a grim, respectful nod. “We will fix this, piccola. This studio has survived wars and floods. It will survive this.” His show of faith was a tiny, fragile balm on her raw nerves.

The moment of unity shattered as the low, menacing purr of a luxury engine cut through the morning quiet. A sleek black car, as out of place as a shark in a tranquil pond, pulled up outside. Elias emerged, impeccable in yet another tailored charcoal coat, his expression unreadable behind dark sunglasses.

He stepped through the broken doorway as if he owned the place—which, Sofia remembered with a sickening lurch, he nearly did.

His head turned slowly, his hidden gaze sweeping over the vandalized table, the red graffiti, the glittering shards of a shattered smaller project. He removed his sunglasses, tucking them into his breast pocket. His icy eyes were cold, assessing, devoid of any shock or warmth.

“Vandalism,” he stated, his voice flat and devoid of inflection. “An emotional crime. It makes the perpetrator feel powerful. It’s also terribly bad for business.”

“Get out,” Sofia said, the words a low, shaking whisper fueled by a fresh wave of fury at his audacity.

“I’m here to assess the damage to my asset,” he replied, as if she had merely commented on the weather. His tone was condescending, implying she was a slow child stating the obvious.

“Asset?!” she exploded, her hands clenching into fists at her sides, all composure gone. “It is my home! It was my father’s home! And none of this… none of this… ever happened before you and your… your poisonous money came into our lives! This is what you do, isn’t it? You swoop in and everything you touch fractures! Everything around them turns to rot!”

Alessia stepped protectively closer to Sofia, glaring daggers at Elias. Marco watched from the shadows, his loyalties clear on his face, his body tense.

Elias’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He seemed to note their unified front, Sofia’s defiant stance, the raw, bleeding pain she was no longer trying to mask. He offered nothing—no comfort, no apology. Only more cold analysis.

“My security team could have prevented this,” he said, offering the help like a direct accusation of her failure.

“I don’t want your help! Your help is a transaction, and I’ve already paid too high a price!” she shot back, her voice cracking with strain.

“Your pride is a currency this business cannot afford and will be the death of this place,” he stated flatly. He turned and left as suddenly as he had arrived, leaving the studio feeling more violated and fragile than before.

The silence he left behind was heavy and profound. Wordlessly, Alessia found a broom and began sweeping up the shattered glass and splinters of wood, each swipe an angry, jerky movement. Sofia knelt, picking up a ruined hand tool, its wooden handle snapped in two. Her vision blurred, she finally let the tears fall, the weight of it all pressing down on her.

As she moved to lift a toppled stool, a glint of silver caught her eye beneath the workbench, half-hidden by a pile of wood shavings. She reached for it, her fingers closing around a small, cold object. It was a charm—a sleek, cunning fox, its pointed face looking upward, attached to a broken link as if it had been torn violently from a bracelet or chain.

She held it in her palm. The metal was cheap and tarnished. But it looked vaguely, frustratingly familiar. A memory tugged at the edge of her mind—a laugh in the sunlight, a hand gesturing, metal glinting on a wrist… but it slipped away, elusive and maddening.

“What’s that?” Alessia asked, peering over, her brow furrowed.

“Dunno,” Sofia said, closing her fist around it tightly, the edges biting into her skin. “Maybe trash.” She shoved it deep into her pocket.

But as the weight of it settled against her thigh, a new, more terrifying feeling coiled in her gut. The feeling of being watched yesterday returned, a ghostly breath on the back of her neck.

Sofia reached for her bag on the ground where it had slipped off her shoulder and fumbled for her phone, her fingers slipping on the screen, hands shaking visibly. She called the police, her voice trembling as she reported the break-in and vandalism. The operator assured her, the police were on their way.

They arrived with lazy indifference, two officers who looked more bored than concerned. Their gazes swept over the destruction, as one would glance through the weather reports section on the town paper.

“This is personal, Signora,” the older one said, not unkindly, as he noted the specific, vicious damage to the table. "A robbery, they take tools. A rival, they steal designs. This… this is anger." He glanced at the words on the wall, shaking his head. “You have a jealous lover, Signora? An employee who left on bad terms?”

“I…” Sofia’s mind flashed to Luca’s twisted, drunken face in the market. “There is someone." And she proceeded to tell them about the encounter with Luca in front of the wine shop at the market.

The officer scribbled in his notebook. “And this Luca… he has a key? He knows the premises?”

“No key,” Sofia said, shaking her head. “But he’s been here countless times. He knows the layout, the value of things… where we keep everything.”

As she spoke, the front door burst open, not for the first time that morning. Matteo stood there, his face pale, his usually impeccable hair disheveled as if he’d run his hands through it repeatedly. “Sofia! Marco called me–what in God’s name happened?” His eyes widened as he took in the full scope of the destruction, the police, his sister’s ashen face. He rushed to her side, placing a protective hand on her arm. “Are you hurt? Did they take anything?”

“Just destroyed it," she whispered, leaning into his solid presence for a moment, a rare crack her brother wasn’t used to seeing in her armor.

The officer looked between them. “You know this ‘Luca’ as well, Signor?"

"Unfortunately," Matteo bit out, his jaw tight. "He’s her ex. A jealous, small-minded man who couldn’t handle her moving on, But this… this is beyond anything."

The officer nodded slowly and closed his notebook with a definitive snap. “Then, I suggest we start there. We will look for him, ask around the docks if anyone saw him last night, but without evidence and witnesses…” He shrugged, a gesture that said everything– It’s a lover’s quarrel gone too far.

As their car pulled away, Sofia and Matteo stood alone in the doorway of her violated sanctuary.

“I’ll stay with you," Matteo said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “We’ll figure this out."

From the building across the street, a figure lowered a phone, having captured the entire exchange with the police, including Matteo’s arrival. A satisfied smile spread across their lips. “Everything was going exactly according to plan."