Chapter 47 - The Broken Loom of Como
We left France before sunrise, traveling south in a rented utility van through the high mountain passes of the Simplon route to avoid border checkpoints. Julian drove despite his fever, while Eleanor and I worked in the back under the flickering dome light, preparing our strike.
In the rear of the van lay the scorched, torn garment bag we had rescued from the Lyon vault. Inside was the *Second Gown*—the ancestral prototype woven in 1922 from pure, unbleached Lyon mulberry silk, the twin to the dress Sophia had stolen from my bridal suite.
Using needles, gold metallic thread, and the surgical scalpels from Eleanor’s first-aid kit, I spent five hours repairing the torn hem of the train. Every stitch I set was an act of quiet, concentrated fury. I wasn't sewing a wedding dress anymore. I was sewing an executioner's robe.
"You're going to walk right into the lion's mouth," Julian said quietly through the rearview mirror as the snow-capped peaks of the Italian Alps gave way to the lush, cypress-lined ridges surrounding Lake Como. "The moment David sees you instead of Sophia, he won't hesitate to pull a trigger."
"David won't see me until the doors close," I replied, pulling a length of waxed thread through the heavy brocade. "Because Sophia is going to lead him into the trap."
Sophia looked at me from the opposite bench, her fingers nervously smoothing the fabric of the veil. "Clara, if I fail... if David realizes I’m wearing a wire before you trigger the broadcast..."
"You won't fail," I said, locking eyes with her. "For twenty-six years, Mother taught you how to play the role of the spoiled, compliant daughter. Today, you play that role one last time. You walk up to David, you tell him you slipped away from Geneva to join him, and you confirm that you’re ready to sign the liquidation papers."
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"And while David is gloating over his victory," Julian added, "Clara and I will patch into the villa's fiber-optic presentation system in the grand ballroom. The moment David plugs the stolen drive into the Conclave’s terminal, Sophia will step back... and we blow the Guild's secrets across every screen in the palace."
By four in the afternoon, the van came to a halt on the winding hillside road overlooking the shimmering blue waters of Lake Como. Below us, jutting into the lake like a stone jewel, sat Villa Serbelloni—its terracotta roofs surrounded by ancient Roman terraces, patrol guards with black security dogs walking the perimeter walls, and sleek wooden speedboats ferrying the world's most corrupt fashion oligarchs across the water.
