At nine fifteen, Rihanna’s black Escalade pulls up in front of Emilio’s Ballato, Andy Warhol’s Nolita Italian restaurant of choice, a circus in tow. Her army of bodyguards surveys the scene. Then one of Rihanna’s long legs hits the pavement and it’s madness. There are paparazzi everywhere, all at once, perching on bicycles and European motorbikes, firing out of Mercedes-Benz windows and SUV sunroofs, pushing in on every square foot of sidewalk. The cameras strobe around her like a Ferris wheel.
Read the full feature at GQ.com.