Page 1 of Wicked (Wicked Billionaires #2)

DANTE

My eyes scan the fashion show attendees, and I see familiar faces. Editors from the world’s top fashion magazines. Retired top fashion designers from NYC, Paris, London, and Milan. Retired top models, and a few competitors behind their dark glasses.

As the dramatic lights and music builds, there is the call of what sounds like angels… Then the show begins.

The deep drums start over the high-pitched choir and the holograms look wild.

It is a bold design statement, but it needs to be. I’m launching a new brand of street wear for a hotshot NYC designer.

My designer today is twenty-three and a rockstar. She likes to push her work, and she is one of the rare people in the company who works as hard as me.

Her work is crisp, and clean. Her use of colors and fabrics, fresh. She mixes all kinds of styles from all periods of history. It works, and it works amazingly.

The fashion show enters its halfway point and the lights, tone, and music changes. As the male models exit, the crowd goes wild.

I have trouble not grinning, and the designer near me smiles and relaxes some.

The male models are pure drama, theatre. They’re semi-naked, wearing gold body paint, and black horse heads cover their heads. They are some of the top models in the world and it feels worth the investment.

I watch closely.

Half of the design features here tonight are black and gold. It’s to give us a dash more edge.

Outside, the building has fifty-foot-high black horse heads.

Roman columns have been painted black and gold and the fashion show staff all wear masks of the same.

The crowd cheer as the male horse-men dance to the music and then more female catwalk models enter, this time in the high fashion garments.

As the models strut, turn and walk around the complex raised catwalk, I smile and exhale. People look engaged.

“They love your work,” I say loud.

The young designer beams. “Thanks again!”

“My pleasure, and you deserve it.” The woman hugs me and I’m happy for her. She is one of thirty fashion designers working for me around the world. If all goes well, she may make it into the top five in the world.

We design, manufacture, and distribute lingerie, street wear, couture, and high fashion.

Our current competitors are Chanel, Prada, Dior, and Gucci.

As I watch the last models strut and turn, the show peaks. I turn to the anxious designer, and she knows it’s her turn to stand on the catwalk and take credit for the thousands of hours of work.

“I can’t,” she says. “I’m too nervous.”

“You have to, and you deserve it. It’s your night!”

She gulps then runs along the catwalk as the audience cheer. The models beam from behind her, and even they know the show was a hit.

I leave the fashion show knowing my half a million invested in the day should pay off. As the show peaks and I depart, someone asks me to stay with the other models.

I explain I’m not a male model, but I’m used to the confusion. I head deeper into the building, and my security person escorts me down the long series of passages. This way I avoid the press and heat.

I start my Aston Martin in the quiet alley, wink at the big security guard, and as usual, I tear away anonymously. Just how I like it. Low key. In the shadows, and in the darkness.

Finally home, I walk into my Manhattan penthouse, stare across NYC, and check my old Rolex. Another fifteen-hour day, and I still three hours left. I peel off the navy suit and pull-on black shorts.

After a thirty-minute workout and fifty laps in my indoor pool, I relax in the sauna and I playback the evening. Not bad, but not perfect. Next time.

I have a cold shower, pull on a towel, and put my feet up. Surrounded by Italian statues, and with a glass of old whiskey, I look at the fashion portfolios of the rising fashion designers.

The rising stars this side of the world.

My eyes sweep their work, seeking brilliance and flare. But also, some kind of control. No one likes a loose cannon, even if they are edgy and fresh.

I make notes for my team, and I pace as I look down at the designs and models wearing them.

I love what I do, but I do miss the sex.

Seeing so many world-class models tonight stirred up the hunger. Gold diggers last year ended my run, and it was time to retire.

I’d also gotten bored.

How many spectacular women can you claim when you cannot love?

Won’t love… for whatever reason.

As I slide under crisp white sheets at midnight, my mind shifts into the future. In a week, I have to fly home to Tuscany, to my family.

To where I’m from, before I came to the US to live, and before I set up my fashion labels.

The last thing I think about before sleeping are the horses’ heads. They remain in my mind for some reason. I then remember the black leather horse riding crop locked away. The one I used on several women’s tight butts.

I growl as I harden, and I tell myself to sleep. I don’t do that anymore. I do not use leather on women’s butts. I cannot use that on women’s butts… Enough! Go to sleep!

I roll over hard and I force myself to not fist my hard cock.

Control. Control. Control.

As I pace in our boardroom, Thomas and I talk. The building is one of the tallest in NYC and the view is unbeatable. We are close to finishing the plans when my personal cell chimes, again. I glance at it and sigh.

It’s from Zara Remington in Beverly Hills. Zara is a top fashion designer, and she married Troy Remington, a dear friend.

Bravo again. I love her work. Congrats, she will be huge.

I smile and see another text I missed from before.

Fantastic buddy. Samantha and I loved it. Ryan and Caroline too.

I grin. Harrison King is a pal who finances movies and Sam is his new wife. Ryan and Caroline are Remingtons, and Ryan is Troy’s movie star brother.

“You focused?”

I turn to my second in command. My vice-president and now friend. “Of course I’m fucking focused.”

Thomas smirks and I sip coffee. As Thomas and I talk on, I realize just how important he is. Thomas helped me build out my original fashion company and brand in NYC, years back. After that, I expanded into global markets.

I’m good at ideas, and I have an eye for what people may like and wear. I’m solid at identifying opportunities, and I work like a brute.

Thomas’s skill set compliments mine. He is a master at detail, law, and the mechanics of operations and manufacturing: hiring staff, arranging global manufacturing deals, and securing contracts.

We are a good match, and we’ve become friends.

I am the Yin, and he is the Yang.

Things run smoothly, and we’re well known in the fashion industry in NYC, as being fair, tough, and solid. We look after our roster of rock star designers; they are my family.

Thomas is cool, calm, and chilled. I, however, am intense. It’s likely my Italian blood. I am passionate about all I do in life. I’m also told I can be cold, and I’m less of a people person.

I like to stay fit and active, plus I live life to the fullest. I would say I like to love, but that is a lie.

I have never loved.

I like to have sex, and I like to make women come. They are two things I do well. Did well, until I forced myself to pull it back.

For the next ninety minutes, Thomas and I discuss the launches of the current fashion collections, brands, and labels. It’s something we plan every three months. It is intense, but when you have twelve billion on the line, at all times, you cannot think too loosely.

I also have a staff of three hundred globally. I’m on fire, and as long as nothing or no one gets in my way, we will be unstoppable.

As we enter my private elevator, I think about the travel ahead. My PA is with us, and another carries several bags and files. My PA hands me three sleek folders with our Celestial Fashion logo on them.

“Just in. In the first are who your team think are the best six unsigned fashion designers in the US. Folder two. The best six in the rest of the world. The third are wild cards. Up and coming. Fresh. Untamed. The designer’s profiles and background checks are naturally available if you or Thomas need them. ”

I slide them under my arm.

“All designers in the first two folders are solid. Legal has no concerns if you want to sign any of them to design for us. I mean you.”

I nod, in the zone.

“And we will send you videos of every catwalk you miss while in Italy.”

Minutes later as I slide into the back of the Bentley, I close my eyes and calm my mind. What a week.

As Thomas and I head for JFK airport, I think about the next three hours and selecting several of the new designers to help build out my fashion empire.

Jumping on hot creative talent fast is what makes most creative companies excel in music, fashion, and film. Heck, in even boring software companies.

My CEO duties are extensive but identifying talent is what I love.

Helping shape my fashion brands is enjoyable. Helping launch high-profile catwalk shows is a blast. The financial and legal duties of running major fashion labels is high risk, intense, demanding, and exhausting! Exhausting as all hell.

As we fly towards Europe, I fine tune my schedule. First London, then Paris, and Italy… Home.

Meeting and signing rising designers, then unleashing them on the world is much of what I do. Ascertaining who is solid for a decade and who may become a rock star of fashion is key.

That means face to face time, of course, after the background checks.

Why help a fashion designer become the world’s most famous if they later end up in the tabloids for drugs or for doing someone else’s husband or wife?

Thomas and I will stay back at the Savoy, one of London’s top hotels. I aim to sign two of England’s top fashion designers after interviews.

My last duty in London is to secure an extra billion for expansion. As CEO and artistic director of my fashion brands, I need to ensure expansion continues.

The tip of the spear in fashion is similar to how sharks move. You stay still, and you die.

As I think about our days ahead in Paris, I think of her.

Last year I attended a fashion show in Paris, and many of the world’s top models attended to watch. The evening after was electric, and I’d buried myself inside a darling of a singer.

I’d taken her outside on my balcony, overlooking Paris. It was dark, and the moon was not out. Just as well.

Coming while yanking on her long black hair was exquisite. Even better when she talked dirty in French.

I’d treated her badly for hours before. I’d had her so close to coming with my fingers, tongue, and cock before letting her down again, and again, and again. It was likely torture. Finally, she begged one final time to come, and I took her over the edge leaving her in a pile.

She was drenched. Silent and sated.

I remember just how tight she was, and I inhale, long and slow. I tell myself to calm down and exhibit control.

I’m the new me. I’m the new me. I’m the new me. No more wickedly distracting sex…

Ever again!