"What we had is over, Dawn. You don't have to do this anymore. You're free to go."
I traced the glass separating us with my fingers, looking into his green eyes and whispered to the phone, "So you want to know why I'm still here?"
He just stare...
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Villa Russo was at least 70 km south of Naples. I had been on the road for more than an hour now. It was Positano, a fishing village, recently a popular dream destination for people.
From inside the cab, all I could see was the cyan Mediterranean, surprisingly remarkable. The sweeping snake-like road sat on the cliff, with probable jungle and towering stones underneath. The breeze was warm, slightly salty.
There was another curve on the road and I sighed, bored at a number of loops. A blue classic scooter was parked at the right, fading away from my view as the cab propelled along. A car passed by, followed by another bend. A small cottage at my right appeared, then the sea. I watched as a speedboat drifted away.
20 minutes later, my eyes caught the sight of a villa, perched high on the cliff, a blessed position on the hill, possibly boasting a spectacular view of Positano and its gulf. It made me somewhat giddy and hopeful. It was a relief to be off the road when the cab stopped by the stairs.
"Sarai in ritardo?" the driver asked me if I was going to be late when I told him to wait.
"No. Non-lo farò." I tried to crack a smile at the man when he leaned back in his seat and took off his hat to reveal his bald and shimmering head.
Putting my sunglasses on, I sauntered down the stairs, careful with the white wrought-iron railing. It was steep and sort of dangerous what with the wedges I wore on my feet, half-concealed by my white slacks.
Villa Russo came into the view of my right. Two stories tall and with at least 4000 square feet of interior space, the property had its panoramic terraces illuminated by the sunlight. Finally, when my feet landed on the river stone porch, I took a deep breath, my eyes on the small water fountain by the arched transparent glass door. Checking myself in the water, I tucked my hair properly, loosened up the pale blouse I was wearing and took a deep breath.
He had to be here. 70 kilometers of distance and 60 euros were spent for at least something.
I buzzed on the doorbell, discarding my sunglasses in my purse. Seconds later, a movement could be seen. It was a young man in faded jeans, unbuttoned plaid shirt with a gray tee-shirt underneath. His auburn hair glinted under the porch light when he opened the door.
It wasn't Silas, of course.
"Come posso aiutarti?" he asked, his gray eyes narrowing somewhat, his voice familiar. He was Dan, the man who picked up the phone and called Silas Signor Russo.
"I'm here to see Mr. Russo."
"And you are?"
"Drizella Ricci. I'm from Newburgh... uh, New York."
"Come on in." He leaned away, making a way for me to enter.
The porcelain floor was a rich cream in color, the walls were a fresh white. An antique crystal chandelier hung above a white stretching table. A turkish vase sat on the middle. Behind the table was a tan leather tufted sofa, facing the window. The most striking feature was the view from here. It looked like a colorful painting of the coast and cliffs.
