Steven Basic
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Growing into the Job, Post 574: Intervention, p1
🕑 Added 2026-01-04 14:00:12 +0000 UTC
Mall di Milano, Afternoon
Inviata Delseno walked two steps behind her bosomy boss, as was tradition. Her arms were overloaded with a tablet, a makeup kit, a boxed pair of heels, and whatever lattes Lucia had decided she was too delicate to hold herself.
Lucia Antonucci, meanwhile, moved through the Galleria di MiIano as if she owned the building - like the overhead chandeliers were rigged to light and flatter her alone, like the people around her, the madding crowd, should part in her presence. Her broad hips swayed with the practiced, fluid geometry of someone who understood her own silhouette the way some other women understood spreadsheets.
She wore sunglasses indoors - naturally - despite the cathedral-bright lighting. Then she took them off. Her yellow-platinum hair was a waterfall down the back of her simple white tee, her figure bold enough to blind. Men turned to stare. Women glanced and immediately pretended not to.
Inviata’s wrists hurt. The team of young women had spent the past two hours shopping, which for Inviata entailed not only carrying Lucia’s things but tending to her ego and righting the mannequins she knocked over with her incautious, overly generous hips. Sometimes Inviata felt less like the manager of an internationally known figure model and more like something else. I babysit a hurricane with breasts.
Her boss was humming, terribly off-key, to the piped-in mall music as if it were a personal soundtrack. Two assistants - interns, really - trailed behind, carrying Lucia’s shopping bags like ceremonial offerings.
Another typical Mercoledì.
Inviata’s business phone buzzed against her hip. She huffed, rearranged Somme burdens, and checked the screen.
MELISSA MONROE (U.S.)
Her heart dropped directly into her knees. She had heard from the little American man himself, Dr. Vulni, just yesterday. He had accepted their offer to use his likeness for Incarnato di Lucia’s new line of manikins. Soon he would be gracing the bosoms and decorating the carrier-dress bodices of women worldwide. She was pleased, but a bit surprised he had responded himself, rather than leaving it up to his figura materna of a girlfriend, Ms. Monroe. She remembered, from their dinner in the States this past Lunedi, what that woman looked like standing next to entirely normal human beings. Hopefully this was not the Amazonic beauty - who might be the real prize here, if she agreed to model for Lucia’s line - calling to negate the deal.
“Inviata,” Lucia snapped, not turning her head. “Perché hai rallentato? Non dirmi che sei stanco. Mia nonna cammina più veloce di così.”
‘Why have I slowed?’ the young, dark-haired Italian thought, No I am not tired. I am taking care of your business.
“It’s-” Inviata cleared her throat. “Sono Melissa Monroe che chiama.”
That got Lucia to stop. Dead stop.
Si. It’s Melissa Monroe calling. And I’ve met your grandmother. She actually doesn’t walk faster than this.
Lucia pivoted, one perfect heel clicking sharply, and looked at her business manager.
“Melissa Monroe…” she repeated, lips curling around the name like it were the first spoonful of a dessert she was already judging. “Che vuole adesso quella gigantessa?”
What does the giantess want now?
One of the interns stifled a laugh. Lucia glared; the girl subsided instantly.
Inviata raised the phone and asked her boss: “Dovrei lasciargli prendere un messaggio? Oppure-“ Should I let it take a message? Or-
“No.” Lucia flicked her fingers. “rispondi tu.” You answer.
Much of Inviata Delseno’s job was to intercept all emotional shrapnel directed toward Lucia Antonucci. She resumed her walking pace - Lucia was already, again, on the move - inhaled, forced her voice steady, and answered the phone:
“Pronto…Hello?”
A breath on the other end - not shaky, in fact trying to be very controlled. Then:
“Inviata? Good. I need to speak with Lucia. Right now.”
Melissa’s voice startled Inviata. It had… weight. Not the girlish tones from Monday’s dinner.
“Ah, I can check to see if she is available,” Inviata said, watching the swaying hips of her employer strutting several paces ahead of her, “Posso chied-…may I ask what this concerns?”
“I’ll, like, explain to her directly.”
A pause.
“And please tell her: it’s important.”
That made something cold slide under Inviata’s ribs. She called ahead to Lucia, who was already walking but examining her manicure under the overhead lights.
“Vuole parlare direttamente con te,” Inviata said, “Lei ha insistito.” She wants to speak with you directly. She insisted.
Lucia scoffed loudly - a sharp, incredulous ha! that echoed off the marble tile of the galleria. She responded in a haughty Italian: ‘Insisted?’ On speaking with me? Does she think we are friends? Lucia lifted her chin. Did you tell her I am in a meeting? Did you tell her that I am very busy?
“Non ho avuto una possibilità” I…did not have a chance.
Lucia rolled her eyes, muttered something extremely rude, then sighed like an opera diva greeting her cue.
“Bene,” She gestured grandly. “Mettila in vivavoce.” Fine. Put her on speaker.
“Of course,” Inviata murmured, already bracing herself.
She hit speaker mode and held out the phone between them. Lucia did not slow her pace, so Inviata scurried to catch up. She had handed Lucia’s lattes to an intern.
The mall noise seemed to dim.
“Melissa,” Inviata said carefully, “I have Lucia with me. You’re on speaker now.”
Immediately: a diatribe, in Italian and loud enough so that the speakerphone could catch it, from the dyed-blonde woman that led the way with her earthquake of a bosom.
The dark-haired manager winced.
“Melissa,” Inviata began, translating, walking fast to keep pace with her employer’s impatient strides, “Lucia says she is… ah…very pleased about the partnership with Dr. Vulni.”
That was not what Lucia had said. At all. But Inviata considered her job fifty percent truth and fifty percent damage control.
Lucia made a dismissive little tchk with her tongue, understanding enough that Inviata had censored her. But the model didn’t move to contradict her manager.
“Good,” Melissa said on the line - still that unnervingly calm, tightly leashed tone. “Tell her I’m glad, too. And that the two of us,” - a slight emphasis - “Jay and me, are looking forward to being new, like, faces for Lucia’s clothing line.”
For a split second, Inviata forgot to walk.
The two of them?
Her pulse jumped. Did Melissa Monroe just casually imply she’d model? Did she know what a nuclear weapon she would be in the European fashion scene? Did she know what that would do to sales? And - though maybe this was a problem - to Lucia’s ego?
Lucia, oblivious to the seismic implications, was checking her reflection in a mirrored storefront as they walked past, adjusting her cleavage.
“I will translate,” Inviata said, swallowing a flutter of excitement, and repeated the message in Italian.
Lucia stopped admiring herself long enough to snort, “Sì, sì... ovviamente vuole lavorare con me. Lo vogliono tutti.” Yes, yes… obviously she wants to work with me. Everyone does.
Replying for Lucia, Inviata did not translate that part.
Melissa continued, her pace on the other end audible in the faint echo of heels - like she was walking too, with equally seismic effects. “But, ladies, I really called today to, like, let you know how unhappy I was that you communicated with him, that he was allowed to make the final decision without me,” she said, “I’m working on his behaviors and I’d, y’know…prefer if any final decisions about Dr. J are made by me.”
Inviata translated, and Lucia laughed - a bright, delighted peel of sound, punctuated by a snort that made two passing teenage girls whip their heads around.
“Chi è la donna di casa adesso??” she said with much admiration, obviously amused.
Who is the woman of the house indeed?
Before Inviata could soften or censor her employer’s reaction, Lucia snatched the phone out of her hand with a smooth, predatory swipe. She didn’t break stride. Her heels kept clacking, like gunshots across the marble.
“Melissa,” she purred into the receiver, her voice a velvet blade and attempting English. “This is… how you say…davvero fottutamente interessante.”
Inviata winced, as that tone - from Lucia - always meant trouble. She leaned in, best she could, and spoke to Melissa into the speaker: “Lucia finds that very interesting.”
Lucia continued, having switched back to Italian without warning, speaking directly into the phone: “Quindi sei tu quello che gestisce il piccolo nano, eh?? Dirigere la propria carriera da soli? Lo adoro!” So you’re managing the little dwarf, huh? Directing his career yourself? I love it!
Inviata rushed to translate - carefully. “Lucia says…she finds your involvement very intriguing. Very… promising.”
Lucia rolled her eyes at Inviata’s gentleness and spoke directly, into the phone
“Deve essere emozionante, vero?”
“It must be exciting, yes?”
“Per contenere tutta la vita di un uomo…”
“To hold a man’s whole life…”
Lucia made a dramatic fist.
“...like this?”
A passing man stared. Lucia ignored him.
“You have him in your hand,” she added, translated by Inviata, “almost…literally, yes?”
Inviata squeezed her eyes shut. Madonna…Please let Melissa not take that literally. Then, she rethought herself. Or maybe that’s how she wants it. Maybe that’s how we all want it.
On the other end of the line, Inviata could hear Melissa exhale.
“That’s right. I’m going to be managing everything for him from now on,” she said. Her voice was stern. “Career, daily schedules. Time away from the office, time away from home. When and what he eats, wears, who he talks to - like, all of it.”
Lucia’s eyes, when Inviata translated, lit up. She pressed the phone closer to her lips and Inviata felt the entire Galleria di Milano tense around them.
“Perfetto,” Lucia murmured, voice warm with approval. “Una donna al comando. Questo è positivo. Questo è forte. Questo è ciò che vogliamo. Questo è Incarnato di Lucia.”
A woman in charge. This is good. This is strong. This is what we want. This is Incarnato di Lucia.
Then, with new zeal and something that sounded like wicked enthusiasm, she added: “E poi...se lui continua a diventare più piccolo e tu continui a diventare più grande...beh, ci saranno possibilità di modellazione molto, molto interessanti.”
And then… if he keeps getting smaller and you keep getting bigger… well, there will be very, very interesting modeling possibilities.
“Lucia says she sees… new opportunities for the future, for both our brands. You and your little man are - how do they say? A perfect contrast.”
Inviata looked at her blonde bombshell of an employer. She was smiling like a cat who had just discovered a new species of mouse.
“Melissa,” she declared into the receiver in dramatic, heavily accented English, “we talk now.”
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