Page 8 of Wicked

Italian designers have given a lot to the world, and as we fly towards Rome, I think of Michelangelo, Caravaggio, Botticelli, and Leonardo da Vinci.

Incredibly talented artists.

I think of modern Italian clothing brands and my competitors. Dolce & Gabbana, Gucci, Prada, Versace, Georgio Armani, and of the high-performance automotive brands like Ferrari, Bugatti, Ducati, Maserati, and Lamborghini.

The very best of the best.

Even if modern Italy has innovative designers and businesspeople, doing business here and in the European Union is too complex. There are endless red ink stamps, and it breaks my heart.

Maybe it’s like old Europe, and why so many left for a new world. The Land of the Free.

My art form is giving designers huge canvas and dressing the world with vibrant clothing. I love to lift people up and let them glow. To help people feel better about themselves.

I’m proud of that, even if I keep a low profile. I even hire people to keep me off the net and away from paparazzi.

As we bank around Rome, I think of my parents’ home up the coast. Their Tuscan villa is several hours drive north of Rome, on the stunning Italian coast.

I adore the region, but my parents are complex and stuck in the past. I love my sister, and I see her often overseas. We are close. The two most important women in my life are her and my Nonna, my darling grandmother.

I pull on a black sweater and black leather jacket. I then taste a new wine from the Remington Vineyard with Thomas.

The wine is solid, and I message Troy, Ryan and Chris Remington, my old friends. The Remington brothers all work in the movie industry and live in Beverly Hills. The wine will do well, and it should win more awards for them.

As we touch down and roll down the tarmac, I know it’s time.

Thomas knows me well, and he can likely sense I’m about to do something I don’t want to. “If anything happens, call! We’ll come get you.”

As I walk down the jet’s steps, I shoulder my light travel bag. Thomas crosses his arms and looks down at me on the tarmac.

“Thanks,” I say. “And don’t go bankrupting my company!”

“Already crashing,” Thomas says as I shake my head.

I hand our Italian fixer my passport and thank him in Italian. He and the customs and immigration officials work fast as my eyes skim the rented black Ferrari. The car is sleek, sexy, and curvy, just like theperfect woman.

I do not want to arrive home driven by a driver. Not here. No one can know I’ve made real money. Too much money.

My cell vibrates, and it’s a message from Lorenzo and Storm back in New York.

Good luck at home, my friend!

I sigh, wanting to be anywhere but here.

Nico, a close friend in media, has just messaged with the same. It means a lot because I keep few friends. I have little time for them. Lorenzo, Nico and I are close and always near if anyone’s in trouble.

I pointthe convertible Ferrari north and let her loose. We roar along the Italian coast, and I finally calm. The coastal roads towards my parents’ villa are stunning and I start to unwind. Music pumps through speakers, and the wind in my hair relaxes me.

I am soon winding through vineyards, alongside fields, and looking down on endless beaches.

As I pass villas, churches, and Tuscan castles, I leg go and smile. I let the Ferrari run, and soon the world streaks by.

Several hours later, I pull down through the gears and I slow the powerful V12. I then drive past the old vineyard, and I pull into my parents’ driveway.

The villa is large, hundreds of years old, and it is classy. It is also covered with grapevines, and it looks down over the coast.

A tennis court is on one side, and grapevines surround it. Old stables and an indoor swimming pool are down another wing. It is a stunning home with arched windows, but I sigh as I stop the car.

“Here we go.”

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