Page 10 of Wicked

As the door opens, I find my father. “Ahh, come in, come in,” he says in English.

We shake hands, and I smile politely as my mother trots up. She is perfectly dressed and, as always, immaculate. Her and I hug, and it feels good.

She steps back and takes me in. “You look wonderful, Dante. Please, please come in.” As I enter the home I ran from, I look around at the wall-to-wall traditions.

Light from the fire flickers, and photos of family cover the room. Old guns, paintings, and swords hang on walls, and the place is full of timeless quality.

It is warm and welcoming, but the pressure to conform is embedded. Much of Europe is tradition bound. I like traditions as much as the next retired sex brute, but they can be like a sword: two sided and dangerous.

Traditions are great for stability and culture, but on the other hand, they can hold down change and hinder growth.

Traditions like marrying into similar families has always bugged me, and the class system is a key reason why I left Europe when I was eighteen.

I basically ran halfway around the world to make my own mark on the world andlive freely.

As we drink fireside,we engage in awkward small talk. I ask my parents about their recent lives. They then ask me about mine. We are not close; back-to-back boarding schools will do that to people.

They, for whatever reason, wanted me out of their home from the age of thirteen, and that was that. Their decision.

I do not want them knowing about my companies, nor my focus in life. We are different people, and most would call them snobs. They think I’m a spoilt, lazy, trust-fund kid.

That is far from accurate, and I’ve worked like a son of a bitch to make my mark on the world. Billions of dollars later, and a fashion empire in the US is my proof.

My hidden legacy.

My old-fashioned parents don’t read English language news online, but I also have a PR specialist, keeping my personal profile low.

To my parents, I’m a nobody.

I ask about the wider family, and they update me on cousins, aunts, and uncles. I want to see my sister and grandmother more than anyone, but that will have to wait.

The small talk comes to an end, and it starts to get awkward.

“Look, Dante,” my father says. Here we go. “There’s still time to turn your life around. Perhaps join some of the boys from school? Antonio is a stockbroker in Rome, and Gio is in banking in Milano. Good careers.”

I tell myself to play nice and hold my tongue. If only they knew the real me.

My long sleeves cover the expensive tattoos I’ve got from around the globe. I only hire the world’s best artists, and I favor immaculate rare styles. Ornate wings. Spiritual symbols. They complement my chiseled body, of which I am proud.

When not trying to dominate the world of fashion, I climb, I sail, and I surf in some of the world’s most remote locations.

I also workout for two hours every day. I am cut from stone, and I cannot use public gyms. It gets messy, and I hate being the center of attention.

“It’s not me, Papa, and you know that,” I say, starting to pace.

“But you can’t live on your trust fund all of your life. It's unhealthy,” my mother says, fingering her expensive pearls.

“Indeed,” my father adds arrogantly. “A man must work in this world.”

“I agree,” I say.

Since turning twenty-one, I’ve received money from a trust. It’s from my dead grandfather. As I stare at my father, I force myself to calm down. I’m used to board level confrontations, and my father is hardly a handful.

“I’ll only say this once,” I say lowly. “As you know, we have different outlooks on life.” My father’s eyes squint, and I watch my mother sit on the leather couch. “I’ve been investing it, every cent. It’s all there.”

“Well, good, that’s a start, Dante,” my mother says.

“I don’t touch the funds,” I say. “It is all invested. Every dollar.”

---