After wrapping up in Geneva, Simon flew the next day to Florence, Gucci's headquarters.
Sophia wanted him to appear in the Gucci documentary, so on the 24th he spent the entire day trailed by cameras, wandering Florence's corners with the new creative director, Tom Ford. Ford's upcoming 1990 spring/summer collection would draw inspiration from the world's oldest center of culture and art.
That evening the Gucci family hosted a reception for him at their estate outside the city.
More precisely, the invitation came from the line of Aldo Gucci, the eldest son of the founder.
Of Guccio Gucci's three sons, two were dead; only the eldest, Aldo, remained the one who'd been jailed a few years ago after his nephew reported him for tax evasion.
In the recent equity deal, several family members had emigrated for tax reasons. Only Aldo's second and third sons still lived in Italy; his eldest son, estranged like his father, resided permanently in New York.
Years of turmoil had stripped the Gucci family of much of its luster in Italy, yet some foundations remained. Especially with a guest like Simon Westeros newly minted global billionaire and Hollywood mogul, the family estate saw its first full house in years. Italian political and business elites attended in force, along with a swarm of local entertainment figures drawn by Simon's presence.
Even Aldo Gucci, who had clung stubbornly to his twenty percent stake and long resisted selling the family company, softened noticeably toward Simon because of this evening that restored a measure of family glory.
With no language barrier, Simon mingled effortlessly until ten o'clock before taking his leave.
The eighty-three-year-old Aldo, still wide awake, personally escorted Simon and Sophia out with his two sons and a crowd of notables.
Inside the car, as the brilliantly lit Gucci estate faded from view, Sophia said, "Now it'll be even harder to buy out the family's remaining shares."
Simon understood perfectly.
Gucci's revival over recent months was plain for all to see.
If the brand had continued its decline, the family would eventually have sold everything after a few more years. But now even the least competent Gucci offspring could see that holding tight to their shares backed by Simon Westeros was the wiser long-term play.
"We can't claim every advantage. Absolute control is enough. Once Gucci stabilizes, we can shift resources to other luxury brands." He smiled. "Besides, the family borrowed my name tonight, but if we ever reached one-hundred-percent ownership, they wouldn't be nearly this welcoming. We'd arrive in Italy as blind outsiders and sit on the sidelines. So the momentum works both ways."
Sophia nodded in agreement.
While Simon had simply socialized, she had made genuine connections with local power brokers who could prove useful to Gucci down the line.
She was about to bring up Cannes again when the car slowed and stopped.
Simon glanced forward. "Neil, what's going on?"
Before Neil Bennett could answer, someone knocked on the window.
Simon looked out warily and recognized the woman's face in the darkness. He lowered the glass. "Miss Ferilli? What are you doing here?"
Her name was Sabrina Ferilli, an actress.
At the Gucci reception she had approached him eagerly several times and left her card; that was how he remembered her.
With the window down, Sabina gave a pitiful look. "Mr. Westeros, my car broke down. Could I hitch a ride?"
She pointed to a black sedan on the roadside, smoke pouring from under the raised hood.
In the headlights Simon studied it and nearly laughed.
He hadn't expected such a clichéd ploy and judging by the smoke, she'd really sabotaged it. The car was genuinely disabled, possibly ruined.
They were in the southern suburbs where Florence's grand estates clustered; Simon's own villa was less than five kilometers away.
He couldn't leave a young woman stranded. He opened the door and let Sabrina slide into the back seat with him and Sophia.
Two bodyguards rode up front.
Italy's reputation for kidnapping was well known. When people in Los Angeles heard he was traveling there, many urged him to bring extra security. He had brought four bodyguards on this European trip. Jennifer hadn't come tonight; he'd left two at the villa.
With an outsider present, Simon and Sophia dropped their conversation.
Sabrina proved chatty, pressing her scantily clad, perfumed body against Simon without restraint, rattling on about Hollywood, expressing envy of Valerie Golino's Catwoman role, and boldly asking if he could take her to America to pursue her career.
The drive was short. Soon they entered another estate in Florence's southern suburbs.
Of all his European properties, Simon liked this one best for its stone wall over two meters high more than six hundred meters of it enclosing the five-acre grounds. The Italianate villa inside wasn't entirely to his taste, but the wall had decided him; he'd bought it without hesitation.
Everyone got out. Simon, now scented with Sabrina perfume, asked, "Sabrina, where do you live? I'll have the driver take you home."
Sabrina clung to his arm again. "Simon, could I stay here tonight? I've been in a hotel the past few days and keep feeling like someone's following me."
Sophia caught Simon's eye, winked with a faint smile, and headed toward the villa.
Simon figured that forcibly sending Sabina away might prompt another stunt, perhaps fainting dramatically in his arms. He waved the bodyguards off to the guest house and led Sabrinatoward the main villa.
In the living room.
Jennifer was still up. Seeing Simon enter with a statuesque, voluptuous woman, her face took on a quietly wounded expression; her voice cooled as she switched to formal address. "Boss, the Cannes award results are in."
She handed him a folder and turned to head upstairs.
Simon took it, then helplessly caught her arm. "Miss Ferilli's car broke down. She's just staying the night."
Feeling his hand and hearing the explanation eased Jennifer's jealousy. She let him guide her back to the sofa.
Sabrina was perceptive. Seeing their intimacy and how clearly Simon valued the younger woman, she wisely stopped crowding him and settled obediently on a nearby chair. When Sophia arrived with a pot of coffee, Sabina even rose to take the tray and pour for everyone.
Unconsciously, the living room again featured one man and three women.
Janet had once said Simon's personality resembled a lion's; over time that trait seemed more pronounced. Even within the company, senior ranks were gradually tilting toward female dominance.
Simon had noticed that while the women around him were no less scheming than men, he found the dynamic more comfortable.
Florence was roughly an hour ahead of Cannes; tonight was the festival's closing ceremony. Simon had received an official invitation but declined.
Pulling Jennifer down beside him, he opened the folder with the award results.
Many films had appeared as expected, yet the outcomes surprised him.
The biggest shock was the Palme d'Or.
In his memory it had gone to Steven Soderbergh's Sex, Lies, and Videotape. With Wim Wenders as jury president, Simon had assumed the German director—who favored themes of emptiness and alienation—would prefer Soderbergh's portrait of a lost American generation.
Instead, the Palme went to Giuseppe Tornatore's Cinema Paradiso.
On reflection, Cinema Paradiso was equally deserving and aligned with Wenders' tastes. Digging deeper, Simon realized the difference likely stemmed from the change in distributor for Sex, Lies, and Videotape.
Originally handled by Miramax, whose Weinstein brothers were masters of awards campaigning.
Now it was Columbia Pictures.
Though Columbia dwarfed the boutique Miramax of that era, the studio's team lacked the Weinsteins' specialized connections and experience in art-house awards seasoning across Europe.
Still, Sex, Lies, and Videotape didn't go home empty it took the Grand Prix, the festival's second-highest honor.
My Left Foot earned only Best Actor.
Daniel Day-Lewis's performance more than justified it.
Simon had never aimed for the Palme with My Left Foot; he was pleased with the result especially Cinema Paradiso winning top prize.
Not out of sour grapes, but because last year's Palme had gone to the Hollywood film Pulp Fiction. Another Hollywood win this year would have made future Palmes far harder for American films in the coming years, as balance would be sought.
Though Cannes officials rarely interfered directly, most jurors were European filmmakers who understood that repeatedly awarding the Palme to Hollywood would harm their own interests.
Jane Campion's Sweetie, which Simon had coveted, won nothing.
Jennifer, recovered from her earlier pique, picked up a script from the coffee table. "Deutchman faxed this over this evening, Tornatore's new project, Stanno tutti bene. It's about a retired man traveling to visit his far-flung children. Deutchman says he's met Tornatore twice, but the director was clearly waiting on the awards before committing."
Sabrina Ferilli, quietly listening nearby, had brightened at news of her countryman's Palme win. Seeing the script, her expression grew eager. She didn't dream of leaping straight to Hollywood like Valerie Golino with a Venice prize, but a role in a Daenerys-backed Italian film could serve as a springboard.
Unfortunately, her limited English meant she missed that Daenerys hadn't yet secured the deal; she assumed Simon would invest.
Everyone was holding out for the best price, Simon wasn't surprised.
While in Geneva he'd watched Sweetie. The New Zealand sellers had been enthusiastic but similarly withheld immediate agreement, awaiting awards.
Tornatore's stance was even more predictable.
Moreover, with the shifted outcomes, Simon realized acquiring Cinema Paradiso at a reasonable price had become far less likely. With the Palme halo even though the original Italian cut was notoriously long and slow other Hollywood studios would surely bid against Daenerys's existing offer.
In memory the film earned only about ten million in North America, and that was after the Weinsteins' careful campaign secured an Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film, plus a trimmed theatrical version. A bidding war would leave little profit even if Daenerys won.
The Weinsteins clearly couldn't touch it now they lacked the resources. But in other studios' hands, results were unpredictable.
Like Luc Besson's Cannes opener last year, The Big Blue. Simon loved that film; had Daenerys been stronger then, he would have bought North American rights.
It broke records in France after its Cannes premiere.
Yet poor distribution strategy in the U.S. yielded barely three million.
Often, a film's commercial success depended more on smart marketing than on the film itself.