PROLOGUE
DANTE
My eyes scan the fashion show attendees, and I see familiar faces. Editors from the world’s top fashion magazines. Retired top fashion designers from NYC, Paris, London, and Milan. Retired top models, and a few competitors behind their dark glasses.
As the dramatic lights and music builds, there is the call of what sounds like angels… Then the show begins.
The deep drums start over the high-pitched choir and the holograms look wild.
It is a bold design statement, but it needs to be. I’m launching a new brand of street wear for a hotshot NYC designer.
My designer today is twenty-three and a rockstar. She likes to push her work, and she is one of the rare people in the company who works as hard as me.
Her work is crisp, and clean. Her use of colors and fabrics, fresh. She mixes all kinds of styles from all periods of history. It works, and it works amazingly.
The fashion show enters its halfway point and the lights, tone, and music changes. As the male models exit, the crowd goes wild.
I have trouble not grinning, and the designer near me smiles and relaxes some.
The male models are pure drama, theatre. They’re semi-naked, wearing gold body paint, and black horse heads cover their heads. They are some of the top models in the world and it feels worth the investment.
I watch closely.
Half of the design features here tonight are black and gold. It’s to give us a dash more edge.
Outside, the building has fifty-foot-high black horse heads.
Roman columns have been painted black and gold and the fashion show staff all wear masks of the same.
The crowd cheer as the male horse-men dance to the music and then more female catwalk models enter, this time in the high fashion garments.
As the models strut, turn and walk around the complex raised catwalk, I smile and exhale. People look engaged.
“They love your work,” I say loud.
The young designer beams. “Thanks again!”
“My pleasure, and you deserve it.” The woman hugs me and I’m happy for her. She is one of thirty fashion designers working for me around the world. If all goes well, she may make it into the top five in the world.
We design, manufacture, and distribute lingerie, street wear, couture, and high fashion.
Our current competitors are Chanel, Prada, Dior, and Gucci.
As I watch the last models strut and turn, the show peaks. I turn to the anxious designer, and she knows it’s her turn to stand on the catwalk and take credit for the thousands of hours of work.
“I can’t,” she says. “I’m too nervous.”
“You have to, and you deserve it. It’s your night!”
She gulps then runs along the catwalk as the audience cheer. The models beam from behind her, and even they know the show was a hit.
I leave the fashion show knowing my half a million invested in the day should pay off. As the show peaks and I depart, someone asks me to stay with the other models.
I explain I’m not a male model, but I’m used to the confusion. I head deeper into the building, and my security person escorts me down the long series of passages. This way I avoid the press and heat.
I start my Aston Martin in the quiet alley, wink at the big security guard, and as usual, I tear away anonymously. Just how I like it. Low key. In the shadows, and in the darkness.
Finally home,I walk into my Manhattan penthouse, stare across NYC, and check my old Rolex. Another fifteen-hour day, and I still three hours left. I peel off the navy suit and pull-on black shorts.
