Chapter 72: The Milan Poaching

The Milan Poaching

The transatlantic flight from Los Angeles to Milan, Italy, was a masterclass in compressed, airborne suffering.

Thirty-five thousand feet over the Atlantic Ocean, the cabin of the Alitalia Boeing 747 was vibrating with the relentless, droning hum of its four massive engines. The air was stale, smelling faintly of heated aluminum and the collective despair of three hundred passengers crammed into economy class.

Paul Rudd was currently folded in half, his knees practically pressed against his chin, attempting to sleep by resting his forehead on the plastic tray table. Next to him, Owen Wilson was slouched so low in his seat that he appeared to be melting into the fabric, staring blankly at the ceiling with a look of profound, existential confusion.

"Elias," Paul mumbled, his voice muffled by his own arms. "My spine has fused. I am no longer a vertebrate. We have over four hundred thousand dollars in the corporate checking account. We could have purchased first-class tickets. We could have been drinking champagne and stretching our legs. Why are we riding in the cargo hold of human misery?"

Elias van Kempen sat in the aisle seat. He was wearing his vintage leather jacket, his posture impeccably straight, completely immune to the biomechanical torture of the middle section. He didn’t look tired. He looked like a European royal who had temporarily disguised himself as a peasant for a social experiment.

"First class is a catastrophic depreciation of capital, Paul," Elias stated smoothly, his baritone voice effortlessly cutting through the engine noise. He didn’t even turn his head. "I secured three economy standby tickets for exactly one hundred and fifty dollars each by exploiting a loophole in the airline’s bereavement fare policy. That is four hundred and fifty dollars total. A first-class ticket costs three thousand dollars. I have successfully preserved eight thousand, five hundred and fifty dollars of operational liquidity."

"Yeah, man, but at what cost to our, like, spiritual alignment?" Owen drawled softly, rubbing his neck. "I feel like my chakras are being crushed by the seat pitch."

"Spiritual alignment does not yield a quarterly dividend, Owen," Elias replied, entirely unapologetic. "Furthermore, restricted physical mobility builds mental endurance. Embrace the suffering. We are flying to Milan to execute a hostile takeover of the European runway circuit. Comfort is for the weak."

The financial paranoia gripping Elias’s brain was fully justified. Just as the plane hit a patch of mild turbulence over the French coast, the digital loan shark resting in his cerebral cortex detonated.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM WARNING: DAILY MAINTENANCE FEE DEDUCTION INITIATED.][DEDUCTING -$50.00 USD FROM LIQUID CASH RESERVE.]

Elias felt the phantom pain ripple through his chest. The five hundred dollars total he had spent yesterday—the extortionate standby tickets and the daily tax—had dropped his liquid cash to $414,410.00. The bleeding was microscopic compared to his overall wealth, but to a sociopathic capitalist, every lost cent was a tragedy.

Eight hours later, they stepped out of the Malpensa Airport terminal into the crisp, biting air of an Italian autumn.

Milan in 1991 was the undisputed, glamorous epicenter of global fashion. The city pulsed with an aggressive, highly competitive energy. The streets were filled with supermodels, designers, and paparazzi swarming like angry hornets.

They didn’t hail a taxi. Elias mercilessly forced his two exhausted Executive Assistants onto a crowded public tram, riding the rails into the heart of the city’s fashion district.

Their destination was a sprawling, ornate palazzo that had been temporarily converted into the backstage staging area for the Versace Fall/Winter collection. The pavement outside was choked with screaming fans and barricades.

Elias bypassed the main entrance, leading his crew down a narrow cobblestone alley toward the service doors. He flashed his provisional SAG card and his booking sheet from the Calvin Klein campaign, speaking to the Italian security guards with such dense, intimidating corporate arrogance that they simply stepped aside rather than risk an international incident.

They pushed through the heavy wooden doors and stepped into absolute, glittering chaos.

The backstage of the Versace show was a sensory overload of hairspray, blinding flashbulbs, and frantic shouting in five different languages. Racks of impossibly expensive, vibrantly colored silk garments were being wheeled back and forth by panicked styling assistants.

And scattered throughout the room, holding court like literal goddesses, were the members of The Runway Mafia.

Elias’s dark eyes swept the room, his Photographic Memory instantly categorizing the power dynamics. He saw Linda Evangelista smoking a cigarette while three assistants pinned her dress. He saw Naomi Campbell aggressively rejecting a pair of shoes.

And standing near the center of the room, surrounded by a phalanx of handlers and photographers, was Cindy Crawford.

She looked flawless, radiating the kind of effortless, all-American glamour that commanded millions of dollars per campaign. But Elias could see the subtle, micro-tensions in her jaw. She was arguing quietly, but fiercely, with a man standing next to her.

The man was in his early fifties, wearing a bespoke, double-breasted Italian suit. His hair was silver at the temples, and he carried himself with the bloated, aggressive swagger of a man who owned everything he touched.

John Casablancas.

The legendary, cutthroat founder of Elite Model Management. The man who had practically invented the concept of the "Supermodel" and who ruled the European agency circuit with an iron fist.

Elias began walking toward them, slipping through the chaos with the fluid, unhurried grace of a predator. Paul and Owen trailed behind him, both of them practically vibrating with anxiety.

"Oh man," Owen whispered, pulling his flannel shirt tight. "This is intense. There are, like, actual supermodels everywhere. I feel very underdressed. Should I have worn a tie?"

"If you speak, Owen, I will leave you in Milan without a return ticket," Elias murmured, not breaking his stride.

Elias stopped exactly three feet behind Casablancas. He didn’t clear his throat. He simply projected the dense, suffocating weight of his presence until the older man instinctively turned around.

Casablancas looked at Elias. The agency boss’s eyes raked over Elias’s faded vintage leather jacket, his scuffed boots, and the utterly arrogant, deadpan expression on his striking face.

Casablancas let out a loud, grating, deeply condescending laugh.

"Well, well. If it isn’t the little American anomaly," Casablancas sneered, crossing his arms and turning fully to face Elias. He spoke loudly, ensuring the surrounding models and assistants could hear. "I read the trades, kid. You bullied a commercial director into giving you a bathtub scene, and you think you’re God’s gift to the industry. You might sell underwear in L.A., kid. But in Milan, you’re just a hanger. Elite Management owns this city. If you want to walk my runway, you go to the back of the line and wait for a cancellation."

Paul Rudd whimpered silently, squeezing his eyes shut. It was a brutal, public execution of Elias’s status.

Elias didn’t blush. He didn’t puff out his chest. He looked at Casablancas with the profound, clinical boredom of an auditor examining a bankrupt spreadsheet.

"Sangat puitis, John," Elias replied, his baritone voice a smooth, velvet hammer that instantly silenced the immediate area. (Very poetic, John.)

Elias took a slow, deliberate half-step forward, completely invading the older man’s personal space. The sheer, overwhelming dominance of his posture forced Casablancas to flinch slightly.

"Tapi saat kau sibuk menguasai kota ini, kau lupa membayar premi asuransi kesehatan supermodelmu di New York," Elias whispered, the words dropping like blocks of ice into the conversation. (But while you are busy owning this city, you forgot to pay the health insurance premiums for your supermodels in New York.)

Casablancas froze. The smug, arrogant smile vanished instantly from his face. The blood drained from his cheeks, leaving him looking sickly and gray.

Elias didn’t stop. He turned his head slowly, locking his dark, mesmerizing eyes directly onto Cindy Crawford.

He mentally engaged the digital loan shark.

[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: SENYUM ASIMETRIS PENAKLUK HATI (THE MILLION-DOLLAR SMIRK)][COST: -10 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 25 CP]

[CHA-CHING!]

The skill flooded Elias’s facial muscles. He didn’t just smile; he weaponized his striking, exotic bone structure. The smirk was a flawless, asymmetrical masterpiece of raw, dangerous, intoxicating charisma. It bypassed all of Cindy’s seasoned Hollywood defenses and struck her directly in the center of her chest.

Cindy actually caught her breath, her eyes widening slightly at the sheer, magnetic force radiating from the teenager in the leather jacket.

"Cindy belum mengetahuinya, kan?" Elias continued smoothly, his eyes still locked on the supermodel, but his words aimed squarely at the terrified agency boss. (Cindy doesn’t know yet, does she?) "She doesn’t know that Elite Management has been automatically deducting a twelve percent ’international travel insurance premium’ from her gross payouts for the last two years. A premium that, according to the secret ledger kept by your Cayman Islands accounting firm, has never actually been paid to an underwriter. You are embezzling your top earner’s health coverage, John. You are skimming off the top of the queen."

The silence in the backstage area was absolute and terrifying.

Cindy Crawford slowly turned her head to look at Casablancas. Her dark eyes, usually warm and professional, turned into twin lasers of pure, unadulterated fury.

"John," Cindy said, her voice shaking with rage. "Is that true? Are you stealing from my gross?"

"Cindy, sweetheart, no! It’s a misunderstanding!" Casablancas stammered, frantically waving his hands, sweat pouring down his forehead. "This kid is a liar! He’s trying to extort us! He’s nobody!"

"I am the Managing Partner of Sovereign Media," Elias corrected, his voice cutting through the panic like a scalpel. He pulled a folded, heavily redacted photocopy of a ledger from his inner jacket pocket—a document he had meticulously fabricated using his Photographic Memory of a future IRS indictment against Elite. He didn’t hand it over; he just let Casablancas see the letterhead. "And I am perfectly willing to remain quiet, John. Assuming, of course, that you immediately surrender the position of male showstopper for the Versace runway to me, today."

Casablancas stared at the document, his heart hammering against his ribs. The kid had the routing numbers. The kid had the exact percentages. If this leaked to the Italian press, or worse, to the American labor boards, Elite Management wouldn’t just lose Cindy; they would face federal racketeering charges.

The billionaire agency boss was trapped by a teenager wearing dirty boots.

"Fine," Casablancas hissed, his voice dropping to a harsh, defeated whisper. He glared at Elias with pure hatred. "You walk the finale. Just put the paper away."

Elias smiled a dark, empty smile. He slipped the paper back into his pocket. "A pleasure doing business with you, John."

Casablancas didn’t wait. He turned and practically sprinted toward the production offices, desperate to make a phone call to his lawyers in New York.

Elias turned back to Cindy Crawford. The supermodel was still staring at the spot where Casablancas had been standing, her jaw clenched, her hands balled into fists. The illusion of her glamorous, protected career had just been shattered by a dose of harsh, capitalist reality.

"He’s been stealing from me," Cindy whispered, almost to herself.

"They all steal from you, Cindy," Elias said softly, stepping closer. The Million-Dollar Smirk faded, replaced by the calm, relentless logic of a corporate raider offering a lifeline. "Elite Management views you as a high-yield product. They charge you a twenty percent agency fee, and then they bleed you with hidden administrative costs. You are the face of the decade, and you are subsidizing the private jets of old men in gray suits."

Cindy looked up at him. She was one of the most powerful women in fashion, but right now, she felt entirely vulnerable. "And what are you offering? You think you can manage me better than Elite?"

"I don’t want to manage you. I want to emancipate you," Elias stated, his voice a smooth, confident baritone. "Sovereign Media is a boutique firm. We don’t have bloated overhead. We don’t charge hidden fees. I offer a flat, transparent fifteen percent commission across all global territories. No travel deductions. No mandatory housing fees. You keep your money, and I keep the predators away."

Cindy stared at him. Fifteen percent. It was an unheard-of rate for a talent of her caliber. It would save her millions of dollars over the next five years.

But more importantly, she looked at the teenager standing in front of her. He had just walked into the most exclusive backstage area in Europe, humiliated the most powerful agency boss in the world, and secured the runway finale without breaking a single drop of sweat.

He was a monster. But he was a monster who knew how to fight.

Cindy took a deep breath, her fierce, professional composure returning. She looked Elias up and down, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her lips.

"Fifteen percent," Cindy repeated, testing the words. "And you handle John Casablancas?"

"I will dismantle his European infrastructure brick by brick," Elias promised, utterly shameless.

Cindy reached out and extended a perfectly manicured hand. "Send the contracts to my lawyer in New York, Elias van Kempen. Let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are."

Elias gripped her hand. The handshake was firm, sealing the pact. The Runway Mafia had been breached. The second pillar of his empire was secured.

"Welcome to Sovereign Media," Elias murmured.

Deep in his mind, the system erupted in a golden symphony of triumph.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: THE BACKDOOR POACHING HACK EXECUTED WITH DEVASTATING PRECISION!][EVALUATION: YOU UTILIZED A FORGED LEDGER AND PURE PSYCHOLOGICAL TERROR TO STEAL THE BIGGEST SUPERMODEL IN THE WORLD FROM A LEGENDARY AGENCY BOSS. YOUR RUTHLESSNESS IS A WORK OF ART.][REWARD: THE SATISFACTION OF TRUE MONOPOLY. NO CP REWARDED FOR OFF-GRID EXTORTION.]

Elias released her hand and turned back to Paul and Owen, who were both leaning against a wardrobe rack, looking as though they had just witnessed a bank robbery.

"Alright, gentlemen," Elias announced, adjusting the cuffs of his vintage jacket. "Find me a tailor. I believe I have a runway finale to walk."