08 • Nicolo

CAPRI

Nicolo De Rossi may have come from a family often referred to as the Kennedys of Italy, but he was not a man who went out of his way to act like he did.

In fact, save the condo in Lombardy which he’d purchased he could not say for sure if truly there was ever a time he’d gone out of his way to splurge on anything.

He had an expensive car and chauffer of course, but these had come with his job; and all of his clothes were purchased by his sister-in-law and best friend, Aria Xaviera Fiorentini-De Rossi (or just Aria, really), who paid no mind to his offers of reimbursement, claiming he already did so much for the family and that she would never speak to him again if she so much as heard he’d wired her money; and then every few weeks his father had foodstuff delivered to him in quantities so large he had to give the household staff permission to take whatever it was they needed, and send out the extras to orphanages around Milan as he did not want them to go to waste.

Basically his essentials were taken care of, and this along with a nonexistent desire to impress anyone was perhaps what had ensured his net-worth sat well into eleven digits before he’d turned thirty.

As the popular saying went, money talked and wealth whispered.

Nico was not an extravagant man, but seated in the passenger cabin of the Hoover EW203 he was reminded of why he always insisted on flying and his heart caught in his chest as Capri, swathed in clouds which lined a dramatically picturesque landscape that sat a few miles outside Naples, revealed itself like an oyster coming out of its shell.

From his vantage point the island resembled a great rock formation completely surrounded by an expanse of gleaming blue water which shone like liquid sapphire under the glare of a sun that had begun its slow descent in preparation for nightfall.

Nico couldn’t stop the smile which spread across his face and wished he could share the moment with Carlo and Aria, wished they hadn’t insisted on getting to Capri by ferry, though he understood it was for the safety of one-year-old Luciana.

He considered letting out a whoop of excitement just to see what it felt like but the idea lost its appeal as soon as the juvenility of it all crossed his mind.

Even alone he felt self-conscious, trapped under the weight of all the expectations leveled on him—the latest being the problem with Conan Incorporated and it's implications on the company’s American holdings.

Nico closed his eyes, giving his head a light shake as he dispelled these thoughts which he’d anticipated. But he wouldn’t let them ruin things for him. No, not even a little bit.

His headset crackled, startling him momentarily until the pilot’s voice came through.

“Is everything alright, Signore De Rossi?”

“Yes, thank you for asking Bria.”

“You’re welcome sir,” she said. “We’ve been cleared for landing at Hotel de Visconti.”

Nico looked out of his window as the landscape solidified perceptibly.

“How long do we have?”

“Five minutes,” the pilot informed, and he’d already started to nod when he realized she couldn’t see him as she manned the helicopter from its cockpit.

A long moment passed, and then she added, “Do you need anything else, sir?”

“No,” Nico murmured, “that would be all.”

He pulled off his headphones and let himself soak in everything, pink skies dotted with lazy grey clouds, buildings which had become visible in the time since Bria’s announcement and the roll of blue waves which beat steadily against themselves.

Nico wondered if this was what people meant when they spoke of the sacred.

It had been this way when the Count first brought him and Carlo to Capri about a year into adopting them and in that time, decades later, not much had changed in view of the feeling of humility and reverence which settled over him at every ride along the Amalfi Coast.

Just as his pilot had predicted the Hotel de Visconti became visible within minutes and the Hoover EW203 made a dramatic sweeping turn before landing on the helipad at its rooftop.

For an instant all was silent and Nico took a second to breathe. He fought to hold on to the feeling of invincibility that’d been swimming through him just minutes ago, an unbridled joy which had seriously had him consider crowing in victory even alone.

It eluded him however, and straightening he opened the door to step out of the helicopter, where immediately he was greeted by several attendants who rushed to assist him with his luggage.

Nico said nothing, his long legs taking him away from the scene so quickly he didn’t notice the statuesque woman in a stylishly chic wraparound dress and almost walked into her.

Realizing his mistake he righted himself just before the collusion, but she’d already stepped back into the waiter who stood beside her bearing a tall Venetian glass of fizzy white wine and the resulting crash put a stop to all movement on the roof as all heads turned to look in that direction.

A short time passed when all was silent, and then the woman cleared her throat.

“Welcome to Anacapri Signore De Rossi,” she said, soldering on with a strained smile that would’ve cued him in even without the fact that the waiter had begun to shake like a leaf that there would be retribution.

“Thank you,” Nico said graciously, and then turning to face the other staff he added, “I apologize for the disturbance.”

His words seemed to remind them of what they were supposed to be doing and the activity resumed with smooth efficiency.

He turned to look at the woman, and for a moment his brain went blank at the sheer allure of her.

“Signore we are sorry for the poor reception.”

“Nonsense,” he insisted, coming to himself and waving her words away as if they carried some sort of malodorous implication. “It was my fault.”

“Let us make it up to you,” she responded.

“Thank you, but there will be no need for that. I’d like to head down to my suite if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Shall I call for a bottle to be sent down to your suite?”

He paused to think and after a bit gave a small nod.

“Yes, I’d appreciate that.”

And with those words Nico strode past her into the building of the Hotel de Visconti, one of the oldest and most profitable business ventures that belonged to the Group.

•

Famous for its Greek-inspired Cycladic architecture and exquisite cuisine, the Hotel de Visconti was a restored sixteenth-century monastery which had been under the De Rossi Group since its inception in 1968, and with its multi-terraced gardens and cliff top Mediterranean views, it boasted an impressive clientele which ran from the Duke of Sussex to Madonna.

It was the hub of anything entertainment when it came to the Group’s business activities and many a potential investor had been wooed after a meal at the Hotel’s much talked about in-house restaurant, Il Refeterio.

It was also a place that held some of Nico’s favorite memories, and as he strode through the lobby (which boasted several stories-high stretches of gold and glass) up into his personal suite, memories assailed him.

He’d been about six when the Count first brought him to the Hotel and even now he could remember how he’d wondered if he’d died and gone to heaven, marveling at how different it was from the Santo Emiliani, the orphanage home he’d grown up in. He could remember how he and Carlo stuffed themselves on treats until they both fell sick, jumping each time so to elicit the delightful clicking noises their dress shoes produced each time they met the shiny parquet floors—at least until they received a sharp retort from their adoptive father.

His luggage was already in his suite by the time he got there, and without preamble, shutting the door behind him Nico flung himself into the walnut platform bed swathed in a puffy white duvet that, turning over after a spell so he faced on the flawlessly white 15-foot ceiling.

A long drawn out sigh escaped him as he stretched, and he wondered if taking a shower and heading straight to bed wouldn’t be the better option if he hoped to arrive early at Villa Orseolo before the Count’s birthday celebration weekend kicked off.

From his phone conversation with Carlo he’d gleaned that almost every member of the De Rossi clan had arrived, with most staying at the Villa, and that their father was peeved not only at his decision to stay at the Hotel, but also because he’d arrived so late—though he couldn’t very well fault him for this last part as Nico had spent most of the entirety of Friday, along with most of Saturday, perusing the financial records his brother had emailed him, comparing them to those of their American counterparts in a bid to make sense of just why the latter had not been doing as their projections had suggested.

Still, for all his wealth, intelligence and class, the Count was a man who remembered slights against him that went back decades and could be vindictive if he felt he was being made light of. This was not taking into account his controlling streak.

A tray of strawberries dipped in white chocolate sat on one of the custom-made ’70s terrace bedside tables, along with a bottle of Domaine Leflaive Batard Montrachet which sat cooling in a bucket of ice cubes, and Nico popped one of the strawberries into his mouth, eyes closing momentarily as a burst of flavor assaulted his senses.

He considered uncorking the wine but hesitated, thinking of how pathetic he’d look finishing off a five-thousand dollar bottle on his own, the Count’s cultured voice quoting Ernest Hemingway to him: Wine and friends are a great blend.

The face of the hostess he’d met on the roof flashed before his eyes, gone as soon as it arrived and Nico groaned inwardly. He’d always been a sucker for tall, dark women, often times to his detriment.

His stomach let out a warning rumble and Nico was reminded of the fact that he hadn’t had a bite to eat since the day began. It didn’t look like strawberries and wine would do much in regards to his hunger, and so he stood up, stripping out of his travel clothes and grabbing a Frette robe as he made his way to the bathroom, stark naked.

Sustenance was important, but first he needed a shower to clear his head. Actually, make that a cold shower.

•

Tucked resolutely into the southwest corner Hotel de Visconti was Il Refeterio, the finest restaurant in Capri if travelglobal.com was to be believed.

With its vaulted ceilings and pristine white walls, it embodied an understated elegance, boasting sophisticated wait staff and a James Beard-nominated chef de cuisine, which explained why most lodgers preferred to have their meals in one of the hotel’s many outdoor cafes or their rooms, as the bureaucracy that surrounded dining at Il Refeterio on any given night took the word difficult to a whole other level.

To begin, one would have to put in their reservation at least a month before the appointed dinner, after which they would have to make their way past a crowd of hopefuls just to catch the eye of the maître d’ who presided over a glossy leather tome in which the name of the fortunate were set down. Then they would be led to their appointed dining area which, most likely as a reward for all their hard work, came with its own private waiter in a white dinner jacket.

Everyone had to wait.

Everyone except a De Rossi, and Nico was just finishing up a simple meal of Tilapia Milanese when trouble came knocking in the form of a stunning woman, long-nosed with fair skin and hair so dark it looked wet beneath the glass bowl of the ceiling fixture.

At first he’d looked up to find that she was staring at him, maintaining eye contact for a little longer than was socially acceptable. But when she did not look away he’d shrugged returning to his meal and thinking that that would be the end.

He was wrong.

As the CEO of a Fortune 100 company, he found himself surrounded by women of top-class breeding at every hour of the day, but beyond this he also towered over pretty much anyone and apparently this was a trait women loved, and so it wasn’t that they intimidated him so much so than it was that he found it only natural to be wary of them.

The beautiful ones especially.

But a niggling sense of curiosity forced his eyes up again, and this time she offered him a little wave which he found himself returning.

She was alone at her table, a rare occurrence in Il Refeterio where meals cost a small fortune, which meant she must have been a person of some means, and looking to ensure that he still had his eyes on her she’d languorously picked up her glass of wine, a pink tongue peeking out to skim the rim first before blood red lips followed suit.

He’d almost choked on the piece of breaded tilapia he had in his mouth, transfixed as he was, and even though his expression gave nothing away in his mind’s eye he saw himself wiping his mouth clean with one of the monogrammed napkins and as he stood and walked up to her table to introduce himself.

They’d talk, and maybe he’d let slip that he had a bottle of wine in his suite that was too much for one person alone if she wanted to come up.

He could be smooth and charming if he needed to be, after all, one didn’t grow up with Carlo and say they hadn’t picked up any pointers along the way.

Nico considered this as he beckoned the waiter for his tab, paid and then stood up.

His gaze locked on the beautiful woman’s in one long searing moment, and then he turned on his heel and walked out of the restaurant, horny and lonely.

It looked like he’d be getting drunk alone in his hotel room that night.