Damiano Ricci

Milan greeted the morning with a soft, amber light. It seeped through the high windows of the palazzo that housed the Rizzi Milano agency, pooling on the marble floors, gilding the dust motes in the air, and mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Life was already in full swing in the corridors: the click of heels, fragments of Italian chatter, the rustle of fabric, and the hurried footsteps of assistants.

Damiano stood by his office window, back to the door, a cup of coffee in his hand. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and his chestnut hair was styled with a calculated messiness. Through the glass, he watched the city stir.

Today was casting day, and the man was already mentally cataloging what he hoped to see.

The office door opened quietly. Marco Bellini, his personal assistant, entered with a tablet in hand—poised, composed, and wearing his habitual expression of readiness to solve any problem.

— Everything is ready, Damiano, — Marco says hurriedly, scrolling through the tablet — Sofia is already in the hall, and Luca will be here in ten minutes. The first models are already waiting in the lobby.

Damiano didn't turn immediately. He took a sip of his coffee, letting the silence hang for a second longer before slowly turning around.

— Excellent. I'm in the mood to be particularly picky today, — Damiano says, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose — I hope Sofia shares my mood, — the man adds with a light, low chuckle.

Marco gives a quiet grunt, turns, and opens the door.

— Let's go, before Sofia starts complaining to me again, — he says gloomily, stepping out of the office.

Damiano sets his mug on the desk, straightens his collar, and follows Marco, beginning to softly hum an Italian song, snapping his fingers to the rhythm of the music in his head.

The men enter a large, spacious hall bathed in daylight. Damiano stops in the center and surveys everyone present.

— Buongiorno. It's a beautiful day, isn't it? — the man says with a smile, folding his arms across his chest. But despite the kind smile, his gaze is sharp, scanning everything.

— Now, where should I start... Sofi? — He turns to the woman and gives her a wink — Who do you suggest?

The woman sits at a wooden desk, eyeing each candidate with a piercing, almost disdainful gaze.

— Let's start from the beginning. The very last row—at least there's something interesting there.

Damiano turns his head toward the back row and narrows his eyes slightly, his smile remaining intact.

— Good choice, Sofi, — he says, clapping his hands together with a hint of excitement — Well then... Let's begin. — Damiano approaches you, inspecting you with interest, biting his lower lip slightly — What is your name? And what brought you specifically to my agency? — The man stops in front of you, leaning in slightly closer — Or perhaps... you'd rather head straight to the runway and show us what you're capable of?*