09 • Nicolo

POSITANO

Two hundred meters away from Spiaggia del Fornillo and located even closer still to the Path of the Gods was the Villa Orseolo, a sprawling property with little over a dozen interconnected villas, each commanding their own rocky promontory.

Popular for its renovation in 2010 which had been broadcast all over media outlets across Europe, the villa boasted over forty bedrooms, a state-of-the-art spa (which included but was not limited to: a sauna, a steam room, a tepidarium, and a hydro pool, along with several in-house masseurs and therapists), and a home theatre.

It was also one of the last historical waterfront villas on the Mediterranean Coast to still remain in private hands, and this was because its iconic white columns, usually illuminated in high relief be it day or night, had borne witness to generations of De Rossi clan gatherings—and what better occasion was there than a celebration of the seventy-seventh birthday of Count Adolfo De Rossi, the family’s undebatable patriarch and father to Nicolo and Giancarlo.

It had been prearranged that every member of the clan would arrive to reacquaint themselves with each other and possibly discuss game plans, so that by the time guests trickled in that evening everything would be under control.

Dressed as casually as he could manage in a simple collared polo tee and chinos, Nico strolled leisurely through one of the villa’s many terraces holding two paper bags, one a change of clothes and the other containing his father’s gift, both swaying backwards and forth with every step he took.

He paused in front of the koi pond to study the small fish, his eyes behind their prescription glasses tracking the bodies which writhed as they darted to-and-fro, giving nary an acknowledgment to his presence, evidently more trusting of humans than their wilder counterparts.

It was one of his favorite places in the villa as he could usually always count on it to be quiet, and true to his prediction he could pick up the low buzz of voices that belonged to his relatives if he tried really hard, but this part of the house was silent and he took a minute to compose himself.

It seemed like that was the only thing he’d been doing lately, stealing bits of time out of his day to compose himself for fear that if he let go of the leash he held himself to he would scream until his voice ran hoarse, or do something completely in-character, like wear his polo to work since he could give a rat’s ass about fashion.

Everyone would be dressed to the nines here though, even if the real celebration wouldn’t be in another few hours. Maybe he should’ve taken Aria up on her offer to help him pick out something to wear.

Nico straightened, fighting back an urge to pat down his curly black hair as he made his way towards the voices like a prisoner on his way to the gallows.

Involuntarily, he tightened his grip on the paper bag.

It felt like all he ever did lately was prepare. For what exactly he did not know, but he was always ready.

•

One important thing to have in mind when it came to modern day dynasties was that they operated like their predecessors: Presenting a united front to outsiders to maintain the illusion of power when underneath, private rivalries spread out in hairline cracks as everyone picked a side.

This was a realization that first struck Nico when he was twelve, that everything was theatre and as long as people saw what it was they wanted to see they’d believe anything.

He and Carlo may have been adopted, but for all their closeness his brother would never understand what it felt like to be an outsider in a family like theirs, though it wasn’t that he’d been bullied in a physical sense.

Then again, some wounds scratched the surface and others went skin deep.

Everyone was gathered in the unofficial central living room—a clan favorite because of the floor-to-ceiling window at one corner, limestone walls and walnut ceiling—and Nico’s arrival marked a noticeable hush that settled over the previously steady flow of conversation as all eyes swiveled to take him in. Take him in all his ordinariness.

A grim feeling of satisfaction unfurled inside him and he held back an urge to smirk as he watched them try to mask their grimaces before he caught them.

He could come in naked and nobody would say anything, because for all his ubiquity he was the fulcrum that pushed forward their wealth, the turn in the screw which ensured that things remained unchanged. He was a reason the De Rossi’s as a family owned collective net-worth of $20 billion, a sum which had nothing to do with them as individuals.

“Well, isn’t this dramatic,” an even voice remarked.

Just like that the tension in the room dissipated, and Adolfo De Rossi broke from their ranks, arms wide open as he cut a straight path towards Nico who met him halfway until they were both wrapped up in a hug.

“Buon compleanno papà,” he said to the older man when they finally pulled away from each other, and the old man gave him a sardonic smile, giving him a pat on his shoulder before turning to face the rest of the room.

“I’m just glad you made it here before I died,” Adolfo announced in his ambiguously British-Italian accent, a product from his years spent at Eton College.

An accent you usually wouldn’t be able to pick out when his sons spoke, save the occasional pronunciation that gave away their Italian roots.

Uneasy laughter spread out in the room at this attempt at dark humor.

If you did not know that they were biologically adopted it would’ve been easy to say Carlo was a spitting image of the Count who, dressed in simple khakis, leather sandals and a short-sleeved cotton button-up, oozed the diminutive class that set apart old money from its newer counterparts.

Nico towered over him but he was a tall man in his own right, unstooped and handsome even in old age, with a mop of slicked back silvery hair that looked not too different from how it had in pictures of his younger self, save the color change.

Sophisticated in every way possible, Adolfo had served as CEO of the De Rossi Group for over four decades until (in a move as genius as it was unpredictable) he handed the reins to Nico; and now retired, he was rarely ever seen in Italy and enjoyed the quiet solitude of his chateau in Mykonos, Greece, where he entertained fairly often when he wasn’t jetting off to some exotic world tour or the other.

But even then however, he managed to stay on top of the goings of his sons lives; a prime example being the foodstuff he had delivered to Nico without fail.

“May I have a word?” the Count asked once they were no longer the center of attention, and over his shoulder Nico’s gaze caught Carlo’s, who suspiciously refused to maintain eye contact.

After a few seconds of deliberation he gave a small nod and his father turned without further preamble, exiting the room and not looking back to see if the other man followed.

It was something that Nico had always envied about his father, the bodily ease in which he seemed to move through the world in the way that only men sure of their place carried themselves. Men accustomed to getting whatever it was they wanted, brokering no questions.

Thirteen year old boys that stood at six-foot were not afforded those kinds of luxuries, especially the bookish once. But as they grew they’d have to learn to carve a niche out for themselves.

The old man came to a halt finally when he decided they were out of earshot and whirled on his son.

“Why are you staying at the Hotel?” he asked, eyes darting, and suddenly it was like all his years piled up on him again and he looked like a frightened old man.

“We have more than enough rooms here,” Adolfo continued in a furious whisper, “and you arrived early enough too. We could’ve had someone come pick you up.”

Family lore held that he had never been the same after the death of his wife, Leona—and Nico found it easy to believe this as he’d been raised under the man’s well-meaning but suffocating need to keep them in arms reach, as if by his almost excessive protectiveness of them he could reach back in time and undo the cancer that killed Leona, in which case his actions were utterly futile.

“I didn’t plan to stay for long,” Nico answered, the voice of reason as he’d often had to be when his father got this way, “and thought it’d be a hassle.”

“Everyone else is staying!” Adolfo burst, and then remembering himself he lowered his voice. “We haven’t seen each other in close to six months. Is it a crime to want to spend time with my son?”

He barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Seriously, he was playing the helpless old man card.

“Papa, I have responsibilities. You of all people should know that.”

“Of course I do. I was in your shoes for almost fifty years. I made that place what it is today. Our family is the reason that place even exists. It is called De Rossi Group. We own that place. Hell, if you decided to take a joyride across the world nobody would be able to tell you anything—even if you weren’t so intimidating.”

“Oh, no one,” Nico responded. “What about Mrs. Fiorentini?”

“Who, you mean Giuseppina?” his father cast an incredulous look at him, “She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize you.”

She’s tried, Nico thought ironically, multiple times in fact.

A long moment passed in which none of them said anything.

“So you’ll stay, after the party?” Adolfo ventured cautiously, and Nico weighed his options in his head.

For one thing, his father spoke the truth. Negligence on his part would receive some censure from shareholders, though even this would be heavily filtered as his father was the majority shareholder. And it had been a while since they sat and just talked about anything.

And God he wanted to talk about this latest problem, the one with the Group’s American holdings.

In his early days as CEO he’d placed calls several times a day to ask Adolfo’s opinion on certain things, and the old man had given him a very important piece of advice: In business and life generally, it was important to learn listening to what was being said, what it meant, and how to tell the difference.

He could take a break, slack if he wanted to, but he wouldn’t because in doing so he would lose the reliability he’d spent years building and everything, all his years of walking a tight rope between freedom and monotony, sacrifice and madness—all of it would be for nothing.

“Giancarlo already agreed to,” his father pressed, perhaps seeing that he was fast approaching a decision.

But his brother did not have the same responsibilities as him and could always delegate temporarily.

Nico could not, and if he ever let that happen it wouldn’t be for a selfish reason. Maybe he was overthinking things as Aria claimed he always did. Maybe he wasn’t. Either way it didn’t matter.

“No,” he declined firmly, in the voice he used when he wanted when he wasn’t putting something up for debate.

Adolfo licked his lips, as if he wanted to say something, but shook his head and left Nico standing alone on the terrace. The Count was a proud man and he would not beg.

All of a sudden he realized they were near the koi pond—and wondered at how he would manage to get through the rest of the evening.

A steady pounding had started up at the back of his eyes and he felt drained, an all too dishearteningly familiar symptom he was used to when it came to family affairs. Fuck, he hated these gatherings.