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EXT— A REALLY GOOD RESTAURANT.
POSITANO, ITALY — MORNING.
SCENE II.
"— AND AFTER THAT, I kept to myself in Russia until she had one of her goons pick me up." With a fork, I pushed around a stray piece of tomato, idle and mostly tired from recounting possibly the most stressful last week of my entire life. "Saw you at the boat, wanted to do it quickly but you didn't look like an easy mark. And I'm not used to doing jobs I know I can't walk away from, so from the get-go it's been a stressful do or die."
My eyes flickered back to the billionaire that ultimately, if we were going about this the honest to God way— kidnapped me to a very beautiful restaurant just on the outskirts of a cliff by the shore. A table by a veranda, surrounded by intimate tables of other morning patrons in more comfortable clothing than us and looked more comfortable with their respective partners.
We didn't look totally odd one out— the complete black tie on us was one thing (although he didn't have a black tie and the first buttons of his collar was popped), but it was the way we respected each other's distance that made us differ.
Everyone else seemed like lovers or people who really liked invading each other's personal space.
I tried to ignore them.
Positano was beautiful, and though the anxiety of following a man I thought was a prey to a fully tinted car, only to arrive at a restaurant a few minutes later, order for the both of us in flawless Italian, and demanded politely an explanation, you didn't really mind all the fanfare.
Honestly, this could've gone way worse.
A gun to my head wasn't a far cry to rich people after all.
I stared at him impassively for quite a bit, just moving the tomato around my plate and inclined back casually in front of him; my posture seemed unravelled, exhausted. And that was true, somewhat, but not vulnerable. Never vulnerable. His head was turned, facing the glittering sea filled with white-capped boats and sun kissed boaters. Every few minutes, there'd be a hoot from someone, then a peeling of laughter. They were picturesque enough for postcards.
Really, everywhere but our table was picturesque enough for a postcard.
But my eyes were on the billionaire and his 'neutral' front. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, not when we were at that dead silent drive when I thought I was about to meet my end in a clearing somewhere with a bullet hole to my forehead, nor when the devil told me to tell him everything as the food poured in one by one.
