What if Alvin Ailey—all discipline and sensual control—and Luisa Casati—all decadence and theatrical excess—somehow ended up at the same dinner party? That was basically the question Fausto Puglisi posed this season at Roberto Cavalli. And honestly, only Puglisi would even think to ask it.

He has always had a thing for America—he literally has the Hollywood sign tattooed on his forearm—so the tension between Italian hedonism and American pragmatism felt personal. Cavalli, historically, is about unapologetic sensuality. Puglisi kept that—but filtered it through something a little sharper. A little tougher. A little more “walk into the room and own it” instead of “float through in chiffon.”

The opening black leather pantsuit set the tone. Boyish cut. Clean. Paired with a spangled bra top that still winked at Cavalli’s DNA. Then came an A-line tutu skirt—a callback to Puglisi’s early days—styled with pointy loafers. Loafers. On a Cavalli runway. That alone told you the fantasy had shifted. There was also a cocktail look barely more substantial than a leotard, its neckline nodding to Princess Diana’s revenge dress energy. Not literal—but that same sharp, post-breakup clarity.

And then there was Casati. Kohl-eyed. Jet black everything. She once said, “I want to be a living work of art,” and apparently traveled with pet cheetahs and wore live snakes as jewelry. Subtle, she was not. Puglisi pulled her darkness into the collection’s near-monochrome palette and its rich textures. Instead of the expected leopard, he went for a photographic silver fox print on silk chiffon—used for a chemisier dress and a sweeping gown that fluttered dramatically across the warehouse floor. It felt decadent, but in black and silver. Not loud—just intense.

Color tried to break through. Caravaggesque floral embroidery bloomed briefly on a strapless LBD. Painted blossoms appeared on roomy pleated jeans. For a second, you thought maybe the mood would lift. But no. Even a shredded bustier dress in fiery reds and oranges—very early-2000s Cavalli-coded—eventually faded back into black. Black kept winning.

Puglisi blamed the mood on the world. “I’m happy but I’m also sad,” he said. “I’m sure you read the same articles.” And that’s the thing. The collection felt like that exact duality. Glamour as defiance. Darkness as armor. Sexiness that knows what’s going on but refuses to collapse under it.

For the duration of the show, at least, he carved out a small, dramatic, slightly unhinged escape. Ailey’s discipline. Casati’s decadence. America and Italy colliding in black leather and chiffon.

Not subtle. Not quiet. But maybe that’s the point.