The process server's pronouncement hung in the air, a sour, metallic taste in Luzia’s mouth. Mental instability. Unfitness to practice law. Bravio’s petty malice was a predictable, if still infuriating, constant.
“A transparent tactic,” Severin Galdoni’s voice, a low rumble, cut through the sudden silence. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze fixed on the retreating process server. “A desperate maneuver to buy time and discredit you. It won’t stand.”
Luzia tapped a manicured nail against the injunction papers. “He knows I found the Floris family transfers. This is his clumsy effort to stop me from using it.” Her irritation solidified into a cold, sharp resolve. “But it’s also an admission. If he didn’t have something to hide, he wouldn’t need to invent a mental health crisis.”
“Precisely.” Severin turned his attention back to Luzia, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes. “He’s overplayed his hand. We can use this to our advantage. While he’s busy convincing the world you’re unhinged, we’ll expose his fraud.”
Luzia nodded, a plan already forming. “He’ll stage a pathetic press conference, won’t he? To publicly decry his ‘mentally unstable ex-wife’ who’s ‘harassing’ his innocent new venture.” A slow, predatory smile stretched her lips. “Fine. Let him put on his show. I have a co-star who’ll steal the spotlight.”
Later that afternoon, the Galdoni Tower’s opulent central courtyard, typically a serene expanse of manicured topiary and art deco stone basins, buzzed with an unusual energy. Paparazzi, their lenses glinting like a swarm of metallic insects, jostled for position behind velvet ropes. Correspondents clutched microphones, their faces eager for scandal. Bravio, in a custom-tailored suit that did little to hide his growing unease, stood beside Cettia Floris on a raised dais. Cettia, predictably, sported a fresh wrap on her left ankle, though her posture seemed remarkably sturdy for someone recovering from a micro-fracture.
“My heart aches to do this,” Bravio began, his voice dripping with feigned sorrow, amplified by the courtyard’s sound system. “But for the sake of Galvanix Innovations, for the hundreds of employees whose livelihoods depend on our stability, I must address the recent… disturbing behavior of my ex-wife, Luzia Vencallo.”
He launched into a practiced soliloquy, painting Luzia as a vindictive, unstable woman whose “recent mental health struggles” had led her to irrational corporate aggression. Cettia, beside him, dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, occasionally wincing dramatically and clutching her bandaged ankle. The performance echoed every public sympathy play they had ever orchestrated.
From a discreet vantage point near a towering marble column, Luzia watched, Chumbo nestled securely in her arms. The marmotillo’s fur, a riot of tawny and rust-colored patterns, rippled with suppressed excitement. Chumbo had always had a particular, visceral reaction to Bravio. Even now, his little nose twitched, his ears flattened, and a low, guttural rumble emanated from his surprisingly large chest.
“Easy, boy,” Luzia murmured, stroking his soft head. “Not yet.”
Bravio, emboldened by the cameras, gestured expansively. “It pains me to see her like this. But her erratic conduct, her baseless accusations, her aggressive campaigns to seize control of a company she has no understanding of, leave me no choice but to seek legal protection for Galvanix and for her own well-being.”
Cettia let out a soft, theatrical sob. “She even attacked me, dear Bravio, after I tried to offer comfort to her… her troubled mind.” She glanced pointedly at her dressed ankle, as if daring anyone to question the veracity of her ‘re-injury.’
It was the mention of an “attack” that finally broke Chumbo’s restraint. A deep, resonant growl ripped from his throat. His small, beady eyes, normally full of affectionate mischief, narrowed into focused slits. A faint, almost imperceptible green haze began to shimmer around his tail.
Luzia knew that green haze. It was a pre-fart warning.
“Now, Chumbo, wait—” she began, but it was too late. With a sound like a wet cannon shot, a truly monumental cloud of toxic, emerald-tinged gas erupted from the marmotillo’s rear. It billowed outward, engulfing the front rows of correspondents in a stench that made them gag and recoil, clutching their throats.
Before the gas could fully dissipate, Chumbo launched himself from Luzia’s arms with surprising speed. His stubby legs pumped, a blur of brown fur, heading directly for the dais. He squealed, a sound like a rusty hinge, and rammed into Cettia’s good leg, sending her sprawling backward with an undignified shriek.
The impact sent Cettia tumbling into the very center of the large, circular pool, designed to mimic a Roman bath. Water splashed high, drenching her designer gown. Her carefully plastered hair flattened, and, more importantly, her swaddled ankle, submerged in the pool, was instantly exposed as the sodden gauze peeled away. Beneath it, her skin was utterly unblemished, perfectly healthy, not a mark or bruise in sight.
Paparazzi flashes erupted like a supernova. The collective gasp from the crowd was audible, followed by a ripple of incredulous murmurs. Bravio, aghast, stared at Cettia flailing in the water, his carefully constructed narrative dissolving into a soggy mess.
“An unfortunate incident, to be sure,” Severin Galdoni’s voice, calm and deep, cut through the rising pandemonium. He had materialized beside Luzia, his imposing presence a sudden anchor in the chaos. He smoothly wrapped an arm around Luzia’s waist, drawing her slightly closer with quiet certainty.
He then addressed the stunned crowd, his voice effortlessly commanding attention. “However, let us not forget the actual purpose of this gathering. My niece, Luzia Vencallo, is not here to entertain childish theatrics. She is here to reclaim what is rightfully hers.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, holding the room's attention. “And let me be clear: as the primary shareholder of the Galdoni Tower, I formally declare that Ms. Vencallo, as the rightful heir to the Vencallo corporate empire, is the true and sole owner of a substantial portion of this very building, including Galvanix Innovations. Any attempts to obstruct her legal right to her inheritance will be met with the full force of my own legal and financial resources.”
Bravio, still reeling from Cettia’s humiliating dip and Severin’s devastating announcement, finally moved. He glared at Chumbo, who was now contentedly lapping at the pool basin, then at Luzia, then at Severin, his face a mask of incandescent fury. He fumbled in his jacket pocket, pulling out a sleek, encrypted master tablet, intending to make a furious call. His hand, shaking with rage, slipped. The tablet arced through the air and landed with a distinct splash, sinking into the depths of the pool.
Before the ripples could even settle, one of Severin’s imposing security detail, a man built like a granite statue, moved with astonishing speed. He plunged a hand into the basin, retrieving the tablet with a practiced motion. He held it up, dripping, for Severin to see. The screen, though wet, still glowed, displaying a locked folder prominently labeled: ‘Project Vencallo’.