03 • Nicolo

MILAN

It was said that along with a penchant for spending lavishly on designer wardrobes (as a quick stroll around Via Montenapoleone would soon have you learn) the Milanese moved at a pace quicker than you could expect to find in any other Italian city, save Rome perhaps.

On any other day, Nicolo Giorgio De Rossi—CEO and chairman of the De Rossi Group and a two time GQ Man of the Year award winner, among other things—would’ve been contented to sit back and indulge in a power nap as Marco swerved past tourists, ignoring street signs and speed limits in the cutthroat way drivers in that part of the Italy seemed predisposed to doing, but his company’s biannual Board Meeting was scheduled to begin in seven minutes and quite frankly, he couldn’t bring himself to truly even give a damn.

His destination remained about thirty minutes away and he was so desperate that he may not have even minded trekking the rest of the way if it didn’t mean that by the time he arrived at headquarters, his bespoke Ermenegildo Zegna suit would be ruined.

Not that he cared much either way as he had suits aplenty, but it had been a gift from his best friend and so the less said the better.

At the backseat, Nico clenched his fist tightly, eyes trained on the crush of cars around them. Momentarily, his gaze caught Marco’s and the chauffer flashed an optimistic smile, revealing a chipped front tooth.

“Buongiorno! I take you to Porta Nuova—just ten minutes away, no worry,” he said enthusiastically and Nico, touched by the attempt to set him at ease, offered what he hoped fell within the estimation of a smile.

Because it felt awkward he took things a step further and gave him a thumbs up, and it was only after Marco returned the gesture that he broke eye contact, turning to stare out the wound-down window on his side, right into the grinning face of a little boy.

In one hand he held an action figure which he paid no attention to as his face pressed against the glass of his window, wide eyed as he took in Milan while it unfolded around them.

Their gazes locked and automatically Nico waved before turning to look out his other side as he dropped his hand. Minutes ticked by, and drivers beat at their horns, cursing with arms raised over the hood of their vehicles, but Marco only drummed his fingers over the steering wheel and hummed the tune to an American pop song that seemed to be everywhere he’d went lately.

“How is your schooling going by the way?” Nico enquired, and though he hadn’t thought it possible his chauffer’s smile widened.

For years the other man had occasionally let it slip that one of his biggest desires was that he wanted to learn English and move to America, and it was only after several tries and assurances that Nico convinced him to enroll in a language learning program. This was why he indulged him when he insisted they speak English every time they conversed, even when he’d barely been able to string together a sentence at the beginning.

But he was a fast learner and everyday his progress became more visible as he went longer without having to consult his English language pocketbook.

“School is fine. I have been reading since two weeks.”

“You’ve been reading for two weeks,” Nico corrected.

“Yes signor, I have been reading for two weeks.”

“Do you have any tests coming up?”

“Yes, we do,” Marco responded, adding, “I’ve watch a lot of American television and music.”

“You’ve watched a lot of American television and listened to music.”

“I’ve watched television and listened to music,” Marco repeated, whispering a couple of more times before nodding. 

“Grazie Signore.”

“You’re welcome,” Nico said, feeling a sudden urge to loosen his tie.

He tuned out the rest of Marco’s chatter, who’d already moved on to explain why he liked Ariana Grande and looked out his window to find that the child he’d waved at was still looking at him. Nico shifted uncomfortably on the upholstered seats of the Maybach Exeloro Mercedes Benz.

He’d never known how to act around children as they were so spontaneous, which was why he’d gleaned enough from occasionally babysitting his toddler niece to know that sometimes it was best to follow their lead and see where things went.

The car inched forward imperceptibly and somewhere to the right a driver flew into a series of colorful expletives, losing all sense of self and beating at his horn like a mad man. Other drivers immediately began to complain.

Nico could feel the onset of a headache beginning to creep in, and the child had begun to make funny faces at him, all of which involved sticking his tongue out and fanning out three fingers behind his small brown headful of hair. He had a smudge right over a cheek.

He imagined he wouldn’t have been in this situation if he’d just gone to sleep when he was supposed to, instead of spending most of the previous night going through the De Rossi Group’s financial records, on the lookout for potential new acquisitions. His stomach let out a low rumble which he ignored as he looked away from the child who’d refused to give up his antics.

The car had begun to feel progressively small to him, the air grown even tighter, drier, and Nico knew it was only a matter of time before he’d begin to hyperventilate. The phantom pain in his head had already transformed into a steadily pounding gong.

His phone pinged softly and he dug it out of his pocket, swiping its screen to say that he’d just received a message from his brother, two simple words.

     CARLO: Where are you? Everyone’s already here.

He shot off a text of his own.

     NICO: Traffic’s a bitch. Try to keep Aunt G’s smear campaign to a minimum.

Within seconds he received two replies.

     CARLO: Haha, very funny.

     CARLO: And challenge accepted. But you owe me.

“Fuck,” Nico spat, nose flaring as he returned his phone into his pocket, threw his head against the headrest and tried to force in a mouthful of air into his lungs. It was like he couldn’t breathe.

The car felt smaller than it had just moments ago, and already the edges of his vision were beginning to shift. A ringing had started up in one ear, and the urge to strip off his clothes and breathe, just breathe, grew stronger with every passing nanosecond. He came to his decision even before he realized it.

“I’ll walk,” he announced, loosening his tie as he gathered up his briefcase and prepared to walk the rest of the way.

He wondered if his choice to live in Magenta had been a good one, considering he could very well afford an apartment in Porta Nuova, wake up whenever he felt like confident in the knowledge that he would be at De Rossi in ten minutes at the most—but he hated the noise that came with its being the city’s business district and how there were no parks he would be able to jog around when he needed to clear his head, so he’d made the less practical decision and was now paying for it.

Marco began to protest but by then he’d already gotten out and slammed the door shut behind him.

Fuck the suit. Over the car hood, he noticed the toddler still had his tongue out and in a pique of pettiness he pushed his out too, distorting his features to match the child’s, who immediately fell over when the car he was in lurched forward all of a sudden.

Around him drivers had begun to honk angrily.

“I’ll see you this evening,” Nico stated, striking the body of the car with the flat of his palm twice before briskly walking over to the side walk, briefcase in hand as he joined pedestrians headed towards all the various destinations they had in mind. He disappeared into them.

•

As a billion dollar diversified Holding Corporation which held companies in a broad range of sectors and industries, the De Rossi Group headquarter looked just the way you imagined it would on the outside—a twenty-two story skyscraper, all concrete and gleaming glass windows, which jutted over all its other colleagues in that part of Porta Nuova, casting a shadow over them that was as symbolic as it was physical.

Beyond the revolving doors and hung on a wall adjacent the ground floor secretary’s desk, a stainless steel plaque read: DE ROSSI GROUP, EST. 1897.

Nico’s abrupt arrival was greeted by a flurry of motion which he paid no heed to as he purposefully strode towards one of the elevators, where a group of men dressed in suits more sharper-looking than his were gathered around, immediately shifting to accommodate him upon his arrival.

He hated elevators, had found it a point of pride even that at thirty-five he still took the stairs to wherever he needed to be at any particular time—but time was a ticking bomb, a luxury he’d run out of close to twenty minutes ago.

A minute passed in which silence fell heavily over the group, the lively chatter from just moments before slinking away to usher in a stretch of awkwardness.

Nico’s mind had already begun to race through every possible outcome of the meeting he would soon be walking into, and it took several tries from one of the braver individuals to catch his attention.

“How was your weekend, Mr. De Rossi?”

Nico blinked, sparing the speaker a glance as he noted that they spoke without the hint of an accent.

He was a smartly-dressed young man with blond hair too attractively mussed to be unintentional. There was an Italian term for it, and as soon as he thought of it the word came to him: Sprezzatura—a studied carelessness especially in style; be it fashion, literature, or art.

Raised by his adoptive aristocrat father when he wasn’t being jetted off to school in some foreign country, it would’ve been a lie to say he hadn’t stumbled on the word one or two, maybe even a dozen times.

He was pulled out of his musings when the youth began to shift from one foot to another, looking away when Nico took too long to answer. The skin around his neck had begun to redden from either embarrassment or mortification.

A spike of discomfort stabbed at him as he imagined the rumors that would make the rounds if he didn’t say anything to reverse the damage; that he was a cold-blooded psychopath who couldn’t be bothered with the wellbeing of his workers unless he saw a need they immediately fulfilled.

If he got a euro for how many times he’d heard that one he would be right up there with his company, net-worth wise.

Nico did not see the need for small talk, but surmised that it cost him nothing to engage. Besides, maybe a little distraction was what he needed to get his mind off its agitated tracks.

“It was uneventful, but fine,” he responded smoothly, and after a beat, “Yours?”

“It was fine, thank you sir.”

Nico tapped his feet on the marble floors, wondering if he was being paranoid at the elevators having not arrived. Surely it had to be a problem.

“And what’s your name?”

“Timothy,” the young man said, straightening, “Timothy Blackwood.”

Not Italian then, Nico concluded in his mind. One of their foreign recruits, maybe even an intern. He looked young enough to pass for one.

“And you enjoy being with us?”

His halo of golden hair bobbed up and down as he gave a vigorous nod.

“Of-of course, yes. I do, one hundred percent—”

And he may have gone on like this, flustered and stammering, if the elevator doors hadn’t opened at that exact juncture.

All in all, the entire exchange took less than a minute and yet it felt longer than that to Nico, who noticed that none of the men behind him were making any effort to get in before he did. He turned.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he asked the group, and slowly they all filed in.

He was the last to get in, and hit the button that would lead to the floor where his office, along with the boardroom, was located. An acidic sense of entrapment stole through him as the doors closed shut.