Lonzo: Book 1 (Tycoon Series Book 1) (2 page)

Agencies can be brutal. They thought models ran on batteries.

She was used to this dog life but Leandro was adamant she rest in between shows. He was able to convince Francesca and her agency to let her walk only five shows for the final two days of the event. Still, that was a lot. A new model would probably be on a stretcher by now from sheer exhaustion.

Career-wise, she was in a good place. She had achieved everything she ever dreamed of. Major designers sought her to wear their creations while billion-dollar companies trusted her to endorse their products and services.

If she wanted validation, she already had it in spades. Her name had evolved into a brand.

Unlike new models who had to pound the pavement to clinch a slot on the runway to build their portfolios, she can now turn down bookings. Something she rarely did.

Earlier she bumped into Michael Kors. She knew he was a bit miffed. She had to beg off from his spring show as it coincided with this one. He wasn’t able to book her earlier and Francesca had to decline on her behalf.

But she was not known as a “sweetheart” model for nothing. In this business, charm can go a long, long way.

She was able to smooth the ruffled feathers of the well-known designer by promising to be present at his fall show.

It did the trick, as Michael grinned after hearing that.

“You’d better be at my after show party, brat or I’ll never forgive you,” the designer said playfully, knowing too well she would be a no-show.

She seldom attended after shows. If ever she did, she’d never stay too long. She was too tired at the end of the event to party and get wasted on cocktails. She didn’t have the party animal gene unlike most.

“Michael, you don’t even need me there,” she said with a placating smile.

“You have to be there! I need major star power, darling!”

“Star power? I heard Prince Harry is coming over,” she cajoled, which drew a gurgle of laughs from the designer. He was so not immune to the adoration.

Several air kisses later, she bade him goodbye to enter this insane place called Lincoln Center.

The finale show was for Vera Wang. Vera was one of the few designers that she just couldn’t say no to. Earlier, she had modeled new, upcoming designers—not to snob the more established designer set but rather to show appreciation for new fashion talents.

The fashion industry was still recovering from the crash of the last recession. Before the economic slump, fashion movers became too obsessed with “polished chic” and catered mostly to the fabulously skinny and rich. Many designer resorted to just revamping/updating classic materials or downsizing cuts into size zero proportions and pricing them too high until it had become downright ridiculous and unrealistic.

Women come in all shapes and sizes and for a time, designers overlooked or simply ignored the general populace and happily shoved dresses designed for skinny bitches trust fund babies and socialites, who in her opinion, lived on martini diets. Deluded, so-called fashionistas and fashion movers raved it as “aspirational”.

“People need to dream, dahling,” a top designer told her several seasons ago when she asked him about the relevance of ostrich feather boas, cashmere minis and hot pants in his collection. She hid her dismay behind a small, polite smile.

But then again, few designers were aesthetically confrontational like the flamboyant Jean Paul Gaultier or John Galliano. Or socially conscious like Stella McCartney or Kenneth Cole.

She sighed and wondered if she’d become too jaded in this industry. Who wouldn’t? Fashion was a hard and fickle business to be in. One moment you could be the toast of the town and in a blink of an eye, you could be the biggest has-been, or in many models’ case, a never was.

Sometimes when thoughts like these float inside her head, she’d feel like a little ingrate. This industry embraced her and grabbed her from the clutches of poverty in Sao Paolo. She had a lot to be thankful for despite the lack of privacy, spiteful fellow models and the insane schedule that practically forced her to live in hotels years after she got discovered while waitressing in Brazil.

She never thought of herself as special or pretty. Never in her wildest dreams did she think she’d be the newest supermodel on the block or the toast of fashion capitals. But from the moment Sports Illustrated got her on their cover, she hit pay dirt. Other mags soon followed.

She soon bagged the biggest campaigns in the biz—Burberry, Marc Jacobs, Lanvin, Roberto Cavalli, Valentino, Guess, Dior, Calvin Klein, Estee Lauder, Louis Vuitton and the holy grail of all modeling contracts—Victoria’s Secret.

“Models! Ten minutes before the show starts! Places please,” her reverie was cut short as she heard one of the stage assistants call out.

She straightened, closed her eyes to utter a quick prayer before making her way toward the runway entrance.

She willed herself to relax but it was hard, especially when she saw the shakers, bigwigs and celebs all sitting in the front row.

The models behind her kept on yammering in nervous excitement.

“There’s Queen Bey and Jay-Z!”

“Is her train-wreck of a sister with her?”

“Nah.She’s banned.”

“You should check the other side, sweetie…there’s Angie and Brad! Oh, what I’ll do to trade places with her!”

“What? Have his brood and go through labor and stretch marks?! Ewww!”

“Babe, you have no chance. You don’t have a magic pussy.”

Their manic excitement was getting on her nerves.

What if she had a wardrobe malfunction? What if she tripped on these killer Louboutins? The gown she had on was so tight, it required shallow breathing. What if she puked?

The knot in her stomach was getting tighter with each passing second.

She was on the verge of a major panic attack.

Just a few more hours and I can curl up in my own bed. Please, please…stay focused!

She was like a guppy taking in deep breaths as she fought to keep her anxieties at bay. Her nerves would always act up at the start of every show…it didn’t matter if she’d been doing this for quite sometime now. It was one of those things that never went away even with constant practice.

She was practicing her walk when Vera showed up at her side.

“Ah, dearest…there you are! Let me take one last good look at you,” Vera cooed while twirling and giving her the once over. After a quick smile of approval, she nodded. “Perfect, J.”

That calmed her down a little, but it only lasted for a few seconds. The fashion show’s producer materialized out of nowhere to signal that the show was about to begin.

She was the opener.

I’m the first one to go through the penetrating gazes of the pillars of the fashion industry, celebrities and their numerous cronies. The first to be critiqued.

She swallowed.

“Go, J!” the producer urged her on, softly nudging her from behind.

Breathe!

As she stepped out, she was blinded by the klieg lights.

I can’t see anything! Oh, God...

But something inside her snapped into place and made her relax at the last moment. As she continued to stride forward, her legs had fluidly coordinated with the glide of her hips. It was instinctive—almost as if she was born just to do this. She felt like she was floating while the rest of her surroundings got bathed in a sea of white light.

Ten strides later, she reached the end of the runway. Flashbulbs flared brilliantly like huge diamonds, burning her retinas. Head held high, she paused for several seconds, showing off the fabulous gown in the best possible angle before she turned to saunter effortlessly, belying her earlier turmoil.

Before she knew it, she was at the backstage again, in the competent arms of Zoie, who efficiently stripped her to put a black sheath dress over her head. The stilettos were discarded for a pair of gladiator shoes and an intricate diamond choker was placed around her delicate neck. Three million dollars worth of bling but all she could think about was how heavy the thing was. She couldn’t wait to get it off before it snapped her neck.

She smiled at the thought.

“What’s so funny, dear?” Zoie inquired.

“Nothing,” she said as she schooled her features to her usual “game face”.

By the end of the evening, she wore the testimonial piece—a flowing crimson red silk gown that featured radical draping. It drew collective gasps from the crowd.

There was silence before the audience erupted into thunderous applause and gave a standing ovation.

The fact that she was wearing this beautiful gown and Vera Wang was walking beside her was proof that she was the most important girl among the brood of models who were walking behind them. She turned, offering the audience one more glimpse at Vera Wang’s creative genius.

When Vera asked her to swivel, she gamely did—so immersed in this magical world of fashion and its pageantry.

She was no longer the waitress who served grilled sandwiches to bored tourists, the same one who subsisted on tips and less-than-minimum wage.

The simple orphan girl from Sao Paolo had come a long way.
“Faccia di merda! Figlio di puttana!”

Lucca Agnelli’s booming voice carried the vicious words toward the individual seated at the head of the boardroom table.

The air thickened with tension. Every attendee nervously glanced at the handsome man who was the subject of his verbal abuse.

The younger man was impassive and unperturbed, his eyes hooded and unreadable. He would’ve been a great poker player, for he never showed an ounce of emotion. He remained seated and continued drinking his coffee as if he was in a cafe, his manner and posture relaxed.

The fucking bastard.

Despite Lucca’s insult, the man smiled. Almost cordially. Yet the spectators in the room knew what the smile meant.

A kiss of death.

The man had a reputation. He had the instincts of a Great White shark, and like the predator that he was, he smelled his blood a mile away. This boardroom battle was over before it even began, Lucca knew in his heart. The
bastardo
was merely biding his time, toying with his prey. And in this case, it was him, Lucca Agnelli, the once mighty Chairman of Gruppo Milanese.

His opponent unhurriedly put his coffee cup down before he spoke.

“Let us cut the bull, Lucca. We both know that Gruppo Milanese is in deep shit. You’re in deep shit. The value of the company dipped to just a third of last year’s valuation,” the younger man drawled.

“You lie!” came his vehement denial.

The man’s smile grew wider but it never quite reached his eyes.

“You want me to tell that to the shareholders? How you divested their money to fill your offshore accounts? Do you really want me to rip you open for all the world to see, old man? Because I can indulge you and make you bleed if that’s what you want. I don’t back down from anything or anyone,” the man stated, each word a thinly-veiled threat. “So what’s it gonna be? I’m game for anything.”

Lucca lost his bearings. He thought that his adversary would never unearth his secret stash. He’d been very careful. But apparently, not careful enough.

He had grossly underestimated his younger opponent.

Lucca thought he was nothing but a punk on a lucky streak, buying one company after another. He thought Gruppo Milanese was simply too big for him to takeover.

Several months ago, he had openly laughed at the audacity of this man to target his company. He told the press that GM was too high for this mongrel to touch. He should have listened to his advisers. It was too late when he found out that his foe had been buying shares of GM using his diverse business entities. Before he knew it, his rival had accumulated enough shares to earn a seat at GM’s board.

“You got two options, Lucca. Sell off your controlling shares and let me takeover or hold on to your pride and face a possible inquiry from the
visura camirale
...which I assure you will eventually lead to further unpleasantness, not to mention, financial and social ruin. Your choice.”

Lucca knew he had ran out of options. The company owned by his family for generations, his legacy, would be no more. He had to bite the bullet and sell.

It was either that or public disgrace, one that could potentially overshadow the fall of the Guccis.

Losing GM was like a death sentence.

“Damn you!” he told his nemesis, but his voice held no conviction.

He caved in. The enormous pressure was too much for him to handle.

He was a defeated man.

The younger man didn’t even flinch at his outburst. Seemed that he had even anticipated Lucca’s reaction.

The instigator of the hostile takeover threw out his offer.

“Forty-five euros per share. My best offer. Take it or leave it,” the guy continued before lifting his cup of cappuccino.

“You underestimate GM! GM is worth more than that!” he blurted angrily.

“You overestimated your value. If your stink ever comes out of this boardroom, both you and I know share prices will slide into this quicksand you created. So cut your losses now…either way, I will still win in the end,” his opponent continued to rub it in. “It’s all up to you.”