Episode 3

Chapter 3

The Antechamber of Revolution

The lobby of the Hotel Excelsior di Sicilia unfolded before Issabelle like a hall of infinite mirrors. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, scattering iridescent flashes over the gilded marble.

Corinthian columns and garnet velvet curtains framed a gigantic Renaissance tapestry depicting a grape harvest in the Sicilian countryside. The air smelled of fresh gardenias and the faint smoke of candles lit in silver candelabras.

Issabelle descended from the vehicle with a firm step, the heels of her stilettos resonating like a sure metronome on the red carpet.

Her white silk dress billowed behind her, broken only by the gentle swaying of her jeweled waist. In the golden twilight, her skin seemed luminous, her dark hair a hypnotic contrast.

The flashes of photographers crackled around her, capturing her image in a hundred angles.

To her left, the siren of a video camera announced the arrival of another person; to her right, a group of partners whispered as she passed. Barely audible voices floated in the air:

"Is she Mrs. Milani?"

"She arrived alone... again."

"She looks imposing, don't you think?"

"But what good is it to her? If she has to walk the carpet with her husband's lackey."

But those words, harsh, piercing, now bounced off an iron armor.

Issabelle raised her chin, picked up her satin clutch with a soft hand, and moved forward, without stopping to smile or greet. Each step was a deliberate act of authority: each look given to her became a piece of information.

At her side advanced Alonso, Enzo's assistant, impeccable in a tuxedo, carrying Issabelle's jacket in one arm.

He whispered:

"Madam... I have prepared a list of the most influential guests. Would you like me to...?"

Issabelle raised a finger, telling him to be silent. She looked around with the eyes of a strategist.

She recognized Count Ferrara, who years ago bought land next to her family; Baroness De Luca, an expert in philanthropy; young entrepreneur Rossi, who financed clean energy projects. Each name activated in her mind a possibility of alliance.

"Alonso," she said at last, in a low voice, "take mental note: Ferrara and Rossi. They will come to greet me today, and they will talk about investments. I want to explore a partnership with both. Then, approach Baroness De Luca."

Alonso nodded respectfully, surprised by Issabelle's precision. This was not the fearful woman of before: she was a leader who handled the board with expert hands.

As Issabelle advanced, a man at one end of the lobby watched her from behind an arch of columns. Giordanno Lombardi, standing next to his assistant Gabrielle, kept his hands in the pockets of his dark pants.

His bearing was haughty, almost feline: tailored suit, silk shirt without a tie, a burgundy pocket square. His clear eyes followed Issabelle's every move, as if measuring the strength of an unknown magnet.

Gabrielle, an enthusiastic young man, tilted his head and asked in a low voice:

"Who is that woman?" Giordanno asked, without taking his eyes off Issabelle.

"Which one, sir?" he replied with a slight smile of suspicion. "Don't tell me you've become interested in someone... At last."

"The one in white, Gabrielle. The one walking alone, I see the whole room is talking about her."

Gabrielle raised an eyebrow, without missing a detail.

"That woman is Issabelle Mancini," Gabrielle said, "Enzo Milani's wife, our possible partner, sir."

Giordanno smiled slowly, a gesture full of promise.

"Interesting," he muttered. "A partner who arrives accompanied by an enigma."

Enzo appeared on the other side of the room, taken by the arm of a slender, short woman.

Dressed in white just like Issabelle, but in Lombardi's eyes, no one could match her.

The flashes exploded again. The interior garden, visible through the windows, was illuminated with torches and tables set for the gala. Enzo stopped for a moment, saw Issabelle pass by escorted by Alonso, and felt a tinge of jealousy.

Eva whispered something in Enzo's ear, and he smiled politely, but his gaze returned again and again to Issabelle. That distance between them, physical and emotional, opened like an abyss.

Giordanno saw her —laughed to himself— and knew that the real contest was not of business, but of wills and passions.

Issabelle arrived at the antechamber of the grand salon where the charity dinner would take place. A gallery of antique paintings and gold-framed mirrors formed an endless corridor.

There, under the light of candelabras, Count Ferrara was waiting for her. A gray-haired man, with exquisite manners and an easy smile.

"Mrs. Milani," he said bowing, "an honor to greet you. I have heard that you have very innovative ideas for the development of the coast."

"Count Ferrara," Issabelle replied, shaking his hand. "I have studied your projects in Taormina. I believe that if we combine your experience in coastal lands with my vision of sustainable boutique hotels… we could create something unique."

Ferrara nodded enthusiastically. As they spoke, Issabelle already mentally saw plans, budgets, deadlines. Each word was a piece that fit into her master plan.

A few steps away, the businessman Rossi approached, introduced by Alonso. They made a display of courtesies, talked about solar energy, investments in organic agriculture, social responsibility.

Issabelle listened, proposed, negotiated. With each interlocutor, her confidence grew.

In an elevated box, Eva observed the scene with contained rage.

Her face showed that mixture of arrogance and fear: she saw Issabelle shine and understood that this time there would be no opportunity to knock her down. Her lips tightened.

"That woman... is not the same," she whispered to herself.

When Issabelle returned after sealing the preliminary agreement with Rossi, Giordanno intercepted her in a narrower section of the corridor. He bowed politely.

"Mrs. Mancini," he said, in a soft voice. "Allow me to congratulate you. I have observed your speech with Ferrara and Rossi. Your clarity of ideas… is impressive."

Issabelle raised her chin, measuring the man in front of her. She felt a slight tremor of surprise: his voice, his manners, his presence... everything in Giordanno radiated serene power.

"Mr. Lombardi," she replied. "Thank you for your words. Your reputation precedes you: your hotel empire and construction company are legendary."

He smiled.

"I would like to talk business with you, but... also about other things. Will you grant me this dance later?"

Issabelle's heart beat a little faster. It was not a banal offering: it was an invitation to an unknown terrain, where power and passion intertwine.

She hesitated for a moment, remembering the promise she made to herself: she would not give her heart so soon, nor would she let anyone divert her from her mission.

"Maybe later," she replied lightly. "First, there are matters to resolve."

Giordanno nodded, respectful.

"Whenever you like."

As he walked away, Issabelle realized that this man was not a threat, but a potential ally and a personal challenge.

Enzo, from the entrance of the grand salon, contemplated the scene without knowing everything. He saw Issabelle exchange words with Ferrara, Eva look at her with rancor, Giordanno bow before her. He felt jealousy, pride and, for the first time, fear: the woman he thought he had subdued was becoming the center of her own universe.

The string orchestra began to play a prelude. Guests settled at their tables. The charity gala had begun.

Issabelle, in the antechamber of that hall of mirrors and torches, raised her head and took a deep breath. Every beat of her heart said:

"This time I'm in charge."

And as the doors opened, the reborn queen crossed the threshold, ready to conquer not only alliances, but her own destiny.

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