“I gather we have a couple problems,” he said dryly.

“A couple?” Jacopo rolled his eyes. He was the brainchild behind d’Angelo’s successful men’s collection. The House of d’Angelo had catered exclusively to women during Marco’s father’s time, but since taking over the business ten years ago Marco had entered new markets and Jacopo was the first new designer Marco had brought on board.

“Our number one mill closed their doors this morning,” Jacopo continued bitterly. “They’ve nothing for us. They fulfilled nothing in our order. We won’t have a single new textile for the show.”

“We didn’t contract with anyone else this year.” Fabrizio, the creative director, dropped onto the low black leather sofa, and threw an arm behind his head. “We’d decided this was the year we were going to go small. Work with one mill. We screwed ourselves.”

That was putting it bluntly, Marco thought, rubbing his temple, but it did seem to fit.

The closing of the mill impacted the women’s collection more than menswear. It would cripple womenswear and the fledgling home collection. “They can’t close their doors without fulfilling our contract. They’d open themselves to a horrendous lawsuit.”

No one said anything and Marco glanced at Maria, the director of fragrance. She hadn’t spoken yet. “What? I can tell something’s bothering you, and I can guarantee it’s not the mill.”

Maria’s dark eyebrows winged higher. “I’d say so.” She folded her arms over the leather clipboard. “It’s the new ad campaign. They shot the first print ad yesterday.”

“And?”

“It’s not the ad we agreed on. It’s not the new ad campaign that we’ve planned.”

“But is it any good?” The ad was scheduled to run in two dozen fashion publications around the globe.

“No.”

There were days Marco wished he hadn’t gotten out of bed. Today was one of them. “That bad?”

“You’d hate it.”

“Okay. Get the ad agency on the phone. Jacopo, make an appointment with our friends at the mill. Let them know we’re coming, along with our legal counsel. Looks like we’re going to have a busy day everyone.”

It would be busy, he thought, giving his creative team a chance to file out before reaching for his phone. But it wasn’t so busy he’d forgotten the twins. Leaning across his desk, he punched in the number for his travel coordinator. “Marco here,” he said. “Any success locating my daughter’s blanket?”

No luck. That wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, and his travel coordinator’s solution irritated him. “I know I could buy her a new blanket, but that’s not the point.