The Don's Secret Heir

Chapter 10: Survival on Millan

Valentina POV

"I am a designer," I said, stepping forward and carefully unwrapping the silk dress from its paper casing. "I hoped to show you some of my work. Perhaps for your consignment racks."

"No," she said instantly, not even turning her head fully toward me.

I stopped, my fingers still holding the edge of the silk. "You have not even looked at the piece."

"I do not need to look." She finally turned around, crossing her arms over her cream suit. "Every single week, some girl comes in here with a dress she made at her kitchen table, begging for space. I do not have the floor space, I do not have the time, and I certainly do not have the interest. This boutique handles luxury labels, not home projects."

The humiliation burned hot in my cheeks, but I refused to retreat. I stepped closer to the counter and held the black silk dress up high, forcing it into her line of sight. "Just look at the tension of the seams. Look at the bias cut."

The blonde woman sighed, her eyes flicking down to the garment with annoyance. But as her gaze hit the fluid line of the silk, something subtle shifted in her expression. Her eyes narrowed. She reached out a manicured finger and touched the hemline, checking the invisible stitching. For a fraction of a second, I saw a surprise flare in her eyes.

Then, just as quickly, her face went completely blank again.

"It is fine," she said, pulling her hand back and smoothing her suit. "But fine is not nearly enough for Via Monte Napoleone. Come back when you have a real, cohesive collection with twenty pieces and a proper workshop. Not just one dress."

She turned her back to me and went right back to adjusting her luxury handbags.

I didn't say another word. I carefully folded the black silk dress back into its paper, placed it in my canvas bag, and walked out of the store into the biting rain.

Outside on the cobblestones, the cold water began to soak through my worn shoes, chilling my feet to the bone. I leaned my back against the stone wall of a building and closed my eyes, the blonde woman's words ringing like a bell in my ears. Fine is not enough.

By the time I walked back to my district, my shoes were completely ruined, the soles separating from the leather. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, paid Signora Rossi—the elderly neighbor who had watched Matteo for three hours—with five of my precious euros, and carried my son up to our dark room.

That night, the apartment was freezing because the radiator had failed again. I crawled into the narrow cot and held Matteo tightly against my chest, using our combined body heat to keep him from shivering. The black silk dress hung on the back of the door, a dark shadow in the moonlight.

"I will do better," I whispered into the soft curls of his hair, my jaw clenching until it ached. "I promise you, Matteo. I will do better."

The next morning, I completely changed my strategy. I stopped wasting my time trying to appeal to the arrogant boutique owners of the fashion district. I didn't have the capital or the prestige they wanted. Instead, I decided to make clothes for the women who lived in the real parts of Milan—women like me, who wanted to look beautiful and sharp but didn't have the money to spend on luxury labels.

My life became a brutal routine of survival. The days belonged entirely to Matteo; I couldn't sew while he was awake because he needed to be held, changed, and watched. So, I sewed exclusively at night.

Every Monday, I would walk down to the wholesale textile mills on the edge of the city, carrying Matteo on my hip. I would spend hours digging through the scrap bins, buying cheap fabric remnants, irregular silk bolts, and factory overstock ends for pennies. I kept my designs strictly simple. I learned that if you cut the fabric precisely on the grain and finish the internal seams with total perfection, a simple, unadorned dress will look incredibly expensive.

The first Saturday I took my small collection to the open-air street market, I stood in the freezing wind for eight hours and sold absolutely nothing. People walked right past my wooden table without glancing.

The second Saturday, a young working woman stopped and bought a simple navy day dress for forty euros. It was my first real sale.

On the third Saturday, I sold three.

By the fourth week, I used some wood from a broken clothes rack I found in the alley and two old broom handles to build a makeshift garment rail. Holding Matteo firmly on my hip to keep him warm, I stood in the biting morning cold, calling out directly to the women passing by the stalls.

"Pure silk cuts," I called out, my voice raspy from the cold air. "Tailored finish. Look at the stitching."

Most people walked past, their heads down. Some stopped to glance out of curiosity. A few bought. The money was barely enough to cover the rent and my milk, but it was a start. I was no longer stagnant.

A few weeks later, near the end of a long, freezing Saturday market, a woman stopped in front of my rail.

She was sharply dressed in a dark tailored coat, her eyes moving intelligently over my inventory. She reached out, picked up a black silk slip dress, and immediately turned it inside out to inspect the hidden seams. She held the stitching directly up to the grey afternoon light, checking for any uneven tension.

"These are exceptionally good," she said, her voice crisp and direct. She turned her eyes to me. "Where did you train? Marangoni? London?"

"Nowhere," I said flatly.

The woman looked closely at me, her eyes taking in me as a small, knowing smirk touched her lips. "You are lying to me."

"Yes," I admitted, staring back at her without an ounce of shame. "I am. But the dresses are still flawless."

The woman let out a sharp, genuine laugh and immediately extended her hand over the garment rail. "Sofia Lanza."

"Valentina," I replied, shaking her hand. Her grip was firm and professional.

Sofia didn't haggle. She selected three of my best silk pieces and counted out the full price in cash without asking for a discount. Before she gathered her bags to leave, she reached into her leather purse, pulled out a heavy, matte-black business card, and slid it into my palm.

I flipped the card over. On the clean white back, she had written a short message in elegant, sharp ink: Call me when you get tired of freezing at the market.