“Later,” she gestures with her hand.
She really is beautiful live.
Elections – December 10, 2015
“Shhh, Alberto, not so loud!” Alessio protests, annoyed because I'm bouncing a ball against the wall.
The big LCD screen shines a blue light on his face, which is focused on the figure of Maddalena Alessi.
“Come on! Turn that stuff off, it makes me anxious!” I reply.
“Really? Alessi does something more than make me anxious. She's ridiculously hot.”
“We're live now at the Ministry of the Interior, where the Star Party has jumped to fifty point four percent of voter preference, with ninety percent of polling stations surveyed,” announces Maddalena, radiant, on Channel 1.
For me, the news is like a punch in the stomach.
“I can't believe we're winning an electoral campaign run entirely on the Internet!” I exclaim, incredulous.
I still don't understand why I let myself be convinced to get involved in the electoral circus.
After the interview with Alessi two months ago, thousands of people asked me to join the race as a candidate.
For weeks, I refused interviews and public or TV appearances. I finally explained on my blog why I didn't think I was the right person for that role, with the opposite result of creating incredible anticipation that I would indeed enter the race.
But then I began to understand what my candidacy would mean to people: hope. I read thousands of messages from people who saw me as a beacon of hope for the future, for themselves and for their children, messages from people who wanted to go back to having a government they could believe in, people who needed me to once again feel proud of their own country.
I tried to resist, but in the end the people's will got the better of me and I entered the ring.
We decided to create a party, the Star Party, and make no compromises.
Every meeting among management was broadcast through Google+ Hangouts. People debated with us, gave us suggestions and helped us grow.
Every Euro used in the electoral campaign was traced, and the data was published online.
Candidates were placed under the scrutiny of the online community and anyone could express their own opinion.
People participated en masse and the results were surprising. Everything was discussed, created and improved in plain daylight.
Although TV appearances where reduced to the absolute minimum, every candidate in the party accepted debates continuously on a wide variety of media platforms, either with opponents or with the public. For our candidates, it was like playing on home turf. Most of them started out with a thorough understanding of new forms of communication, while the majority of their opponents hobbled along pretending they knew how to use these technologies while they were actually trying to figure out what they were.
We refused any alliance with traditional parties, aware that this would probably lead us to defeat.
The Star Party was modeled along the exact same principles that we proposed to use in the country's government. Alessio, increasingly excited, moves his eyes between the TV screen and the computer display.
He interrupts my contemplation, bringing me back to the present moment: “Alberto, try to focus, you're winning the 2015 elections!”
“Alessio, if I do win, it'll be a joint victory. I won't be the winner, we'll be the winners!”
“Yes, but you're the one who gets to be the new prime minister in Palazzo Chigi!”
“You're not going to just walk away from this scot-free.”
“But who'll stay in cold Milan to run the company while you enjoy the warm weather in the capital?”
“But who will lead the country into the future?”
“The one who was screwed over live on TV by Alessi!”
“Come on, you know I didn't even know what I was talking about! I was trying to stare at her legs without anybody noticing and then I got distracted.”
“Bravo! A real genius! Now go tell that to sixty million citizens!”
“We have the definitive information here. Ladies and gentlemen, this is surely a landmark day in the history of Italy. The Star Party, a party that didn't even exist a few months ago, has won the absolute majority of votes in Parliament. The head of state will give Alberto Ferrari the job of creating a new government. Let's go to the headquarters of the Star Party, where they're telling us that the prime minister elect is not yet available for interview. Knowing him, we'll probably get a tweet pretty soon.”
“Alessio, please, turn it off.”
“Ok, ok!”
Alessio gets up and comes over to hug me. I like the idea of him running Starweb for a while. He's grown up a lot over the past few years and I'm sure he'll figure out how to deal with the sharks in the market without compromising what we stand for.
“And now what?” he asks me. “Time to face the crowd?”
I look at my Galaxy. I have a few tens of thousands of mentions on Twitter.
“@AlbertoForPresident is this the end of the Second Republic?” @goblinta asks me.
“@goblinta, it's the end of the Italy of political parties. It's the beginning of YOUR republic,” I respond.
Capri – January 5, 2015
“Alberto, Maddalena Alessi on line three.”
“Thanks, Anita.”
I'm in Palazzo Chigi, the seat of the President of the Council of Ministers of the Italian Republic.
I got rid of most of the furniture and spruced up the presidential office a little so that I'd feel more at home. I hung a few works of contemporary art that I liked on the walls. I cleared off the desk, leaving just the screen of my Dell, sometimes joined by a tablet and a smartphone. It helps me feel a little less uncomfortable.
A few days after my inauguration, I won the toughest battle yet: convincing Anita Pellegrini, my new secretary, to call me Alberto, not Mr. President. In Italy, titles carry a certain weight.
“Good morning, Ms. Alessi. I believe I haven't had the chance yet to thank you personally for ruining my life. How are you?”
“Maddalena, please! We can be a little less formal now,” she responds in a sweet tone of voice.
“Okay, Maddalena. How do you feel about changing the history of a nation with just one interview?”
“I'd say rather well. See, despite your lack of faith, TV still has a following.”
“I can't say that you're wrong. Anyway, I don't know how to thank you for all that you've done for me, even if it still hasn't really sunk in.”
“You could accept my invitation, Alberto.”
“Your invitation? To where?”
“Although you've already started cutting all the transportation expenses, do you think you could find a way to get to my villa in Capri one of these evenings?”
“I think so. I can use my personal means of transport, like everyone who preceded me should have been doing over the last seventy years.”
“Ay yi yi, you're getting to be so boring! Just a few days in Palazzo Chigi and you're already talking like a politician.”
As the quiet electric vehicle travels down the tiny street leading to Maddalena's house, I look at the splendid sunset over the sea surrounding Capri. The Roman emperors used to come here to enjoy the singular beauty of this island. In the back of my mind, I remember that I, too, am now a powerful man. The mere idea makes me feel uneasy.
The gate automatically opens when I'm just a hundred feet from the villa. She probably saw me coming from the surveillance cameras mounted on the surrounding wall, protecting the diva's privacy.
Her mansion is built in a modern style with materials that are traditionally found on the island. Mostly white, it still fits in naturally with the landscape.
The vehicle stops in front of the main gate, then silently starts up again. I observe, astonished, that all of the villa's windows are illuminated, but the lowered curtains prevent me from seeing what's happening inside.
I walk across the gravel driveway a
nd go up the stairs to the entrance. A butler appears next to the front door.
I've never gone to high society shindigs or jet-set parties and I feel slightly out of place. For weeks, I repeated over and over during the electoral campaign that a position in government wouldn't change me, and I wonder if traveling to this island is already a step in that direction.
“Good evening, Mr. President. Ms. Alessi is waiting for you in her private study,” the butler tells me.
The house is impeccably decorated: subtle colors, lots of beige, dark furniture, pictures on the walls and lots of niches with both modern and antique statues. Everything seems carefully designed and planned, down to the tiniest details. Right now Alessio is probably playing Doom 4 in our office full of faux-wood plastic furniture. For a minute, I entertain the idea of turning around and taking a plane back to Milan.
The butler leads me down a long corridor to a wide set of French doors with smoked glass panes set inside of dark wood frames. After opening the door, he politely invites me to enter.
“Albert, you're finally here!”
“Hi, Maddalena.”
I immediately remember that I'm talking to a star: even in private, she dresses and acts like she's in front of the camera. Her shoes, with astronomically high heels, are black like her dress, which is slit down the side and highlights her beautiful legs. An elegant pearl necklace lies across Maddalena's neckline. Her hair flows down to her shoulders, framing her long face, and the copper color matches her lipstick.
She's splendid. I realize I'm standing, frozen, staring at her. She comes towards me, oozing confidence, puts both her hands on my shoulders and gives me a double kiss hello.
She makes each gesture as if she's playing a character on TV. She's gorgeous, but I think she's in a completely different league than an ordinary guy, the kind of everyday person you'd see on the street. I think about Jasmine again, who seems completely natural in everything she does.
“I hope that the trip from Rome to Capri was pleasant.”
“Yes, it was fine, thanks.”
“The presidential means of transportation was comfortable?”
I laugh, knowing that she's provoking me.
“I never would have used anything official to come to your place, Maddalena.”
“Alberto, everyone falls prey to the pleasures of power. There are some things that even the president of a multinational company can't have until he gets into politics.”
“I don't think I'm going to find out what those things are.”
“You'll want to soon enough. As time passes, the fascination of being able to make a lot of things go your way will eventually seduce you, as it does with everyone else. You're not the first billionaire to get into politics.”
“Your words sound like a challenge...or a threat,” I respond.
“Don't worry about it. Powerful men don't have many true friends, but you'll learn to trust me. So, shall we go have a drink with the other ladies?”
The other ladies? I have no idea what she's talking about, but she's already turned around and started walking towards a door on the other side of the study, away from the entrance. I hurry up to follow her down another corridor, elegant and refined like the first.
As we walk along, a side door suddenly opens and two smiling girls come out. They're both very young. The first has smooth brown hair down to her shoulders. The second has a blonde bob. They're wearing nothing but their panties. I'm flabbergasted.
“Alberto, do you remember Cecilia and Giusi?”
I look at the three women in front of me: Maddalena in her skyscraper heels and the two barefoot girls, the brunette leaning on the blonde's shoulder.
My silence must be embarrassing them. They look at one another, a little confused. Maddalena, on the other hand, is cool and collected. My awkwardness seems to amuse her.
“Hi...um, no...actually I don't remember them.”
“Alberto, the dancers from Channel 1! I thought you were looking at them when you left our studio.”
“Ah, sure, right! Sorry, that was a few months ago.”
What a way to go: the head of state, paralyzed, his mouth open in front of two young dancers from TV. Maddalena interrupts my thoughts: “I'm sure you'll remember one person here today, at least. Come on, let's go say hi to the girls.”
“After you, Mr. President,” the blonde says. She must be Cecilia.
“Please, after you!” I reply, motioning for her to go first instead.
Walking in front of me, they exchange a few whispers and start giggling. Nude, they look like two Greek nymphs. The memory of Roman emperors comes back to my mind.
Before I understand what's happening, and without taking my eyes off the two girls' butts, we enter a gigantic room.
Giusi says hello to a girl that comes towards her, kissing her on the lips. I don't have enough time to look at how incredibly beautiful this new one is before Maddalena distracts me, saying: “Girls, President Ferrari!”
I look up. Behind her, a rather large space is cluttered with the most beautiful female bodies I've ever seen.
Orgy
The room is huge, full of blood red sofas and chairs, white ottomans, dark wood tricliniums with light colored cushions, carpets, curtains, tapestries on the walls, famous pictures, statues. My eyes see everything and nothing. I can't mentally process anything except for the girls.
The first three I notice are on a sofa near us. Two are passionately kissing each other while the third has her lips on the breasts of one of them. I think I saw them on the day of the interview, but I'm not sure.
A little further along, a girl is kneeling on the carpet with her hands tied behind her back, her body and face pressed against the sofa. She's dressed like a waitress, her skirt raised as she's spanked by two dominatrixes wearing black latex suits. The girl's butt cheeks are red. She squeals after she receives each lash.
Girls are sipping champagne on the other sofas, chatting and laughing, indifferent to what's happening around them.
The dress code is rather unique. Almost all of them are just wearing panties. A few are wearing short, colored dresses. No one is wearing a bra.
A little further back, a girl holding a fashion magazine in one hand shows a page to her friend while playing between her thighs with the other hand.
There's a second part of the room, towards the back, up about three steps. It's a smaller, more private space full of large round beds.
On one of these, I see a girl on her hands and knees, blindfolded. Her partner is fucking her with a strap-on, a belt attached to an artificial penis.
Two girls are lying down on the second bed, facing one another, sharing a plastic dildo that's long enough to satisfy them both at once. Their moans are just barely audible from where I'm standing.
After we enter, a few girls get up to come say hello. Others are obviously too busy and don't even notice we're there.
“Hi!”, “Hello Mr. President!”, “President Ferrari, you're finally here.”, “Aren't you hot wearing all those clothes?”, “President, I'm Caterina, do you remember me?”, “Hello Mr. President, I'm so pleased to meet you.”
I try to remember names and faces and babble something in response.
Maddalena is clearly amused by my confused state, but saves me from embarrassment and invites me to come have a drink with her.
I settle into a corner of the room and pour myself a flute of champagne.
“I hope you're not offended by my little surprise, are you?”
“No, but...it wasn't what I was expecting.”
“It's a privilege reserved for powerful men. You can spend some time with interesting people here.”
“They work with you?”
“Some do. Others are my friends. And others are friends of my friends.”
“And this party is...?”
“It's for you, naturally!” Maddalena interrupts.
“For me?”
“Sure. It may look like we're a bunch of lesbian
s, but we're all strictly bisexual.”
Maybe she was waiting for me to reply, but I couldn't think of anything to say.
“Don't worry. We don't expect you to satisfy all of us,” she adds, mischievously.
“But...I really -”
“You really can do and have who you want, and you've got all night long,” she continues in a serious tone of voice. “And if you like it here with me, you can come back any night you want. You can whip them or let them whip you. You can let them walk all over you. You can fuck three at once, or five, or as many as you want. You can tell them what you want them to wear or ask them for hot little shows or stripteases. You're the president, nobody will deny you anything.”
Despite everything, I start to calm down and regain control over my thoughts. “Maddalena, why did you think all of this would interest me?”
She laughs heartily. “Ah, really? You know, I did suspect that might be the case. Manuel!”
A door opens and a tall, muscular man enters. He has smooth, long hair down to his shoulders and reminds me of a dancer I once saw on TV, but his unusual outfit thwarts my attempt to identify him: he's completely naked.
As he comes towards me, a few girls glance over at him, admiringly.
“Hi Manuel, I'd like to introduce you to President Ferrari,” Maddalena says.
“Hello, Mr. President. It's truly an honor.”
He comes and sits with us, crossing his legs. I'm more surprised than ever. He has a great body and I honestly didn't expect to find a naked man sitting in front of me.
Maddalena notices my hesitation. “Alright, so we've discovered President Ferrari's weakness here. Manuel, unfortunately, is only gay, which makes it a little less interesting for some of us. But we love having him at our parties.”
The showgirl's eyes first study Manuel and then my face, looking for confirmation.
“Manuel,” I say, “I hope I didn't disturb you from what you were just doing. In fact, Maddalena and I were just discussing a few things. Could you give us a few minutes?”