0.

O P U L E N T  G L O R Y

—aka, a con and a rich man,

EXT— A BOAT IN THE SEA.

POSITANO, ITALY — NIGHT.

SCENE I.

YOU CAN FIND out how rich a businessman really is by the adornment on his wrist. By adornment, I don't mean some obnoxious gold chain tacked with diamonds. Any man who wears that doesn't deserve the time of the night.

Unless you want easy prey. But easy prey > overcompensating. And when you're a pro, do you really want to play with the little league?

No. What you go for are the businessmen in watches. Watches have class. Dignity. Patek Philippe, Chopard, Longines, etcetera. But you don't settle. Not yet.

You can try Rolex, but that's a fifty-fifty chance someone's just trying to catch up to the big leagues.

And people who don't have enough are more aware of the things they do have. Little hoarders.

You roam. You laugh. You kiss cheeks against the air. You remain a constant ghost moving among the dance of the elite. A touch of a shadow— unable to be discern.

The night is high, the boat is filtered in warm-toned lights while the city winked across the dark, calm sea. It's not that far from shore, a few yards, but it's enough to get swallowed by the 1% presence right here, right now. The laughter is acoustic, their smiles easy and loose. Everyone is talking, no one is really listening.

There is a euphoria in it. A drunken desire to be part of the little caricature splashed across mockery in ink, hounding for the heads of those drowning in opulence.

You filter between people; faint touches against their wrists, their pearly necks, and making sure your perfume mixed with your natural scent, invades their senses. You are remembered but not remembered. A memory of a distracting woman without her actual features. It's just like a dog peeing all over.

Alright, cut that. A dog peeing? You know what I mean. Same principles. You become a ghost; become some haunting without manifesting a corporeal body. You become an image, a title, a 'just another lovely girl'.

And then you find him. Just in time.

In reality, you've never really lost sight of him, yes?

Because con jobs who don't plan are con jobs that already crashed, killed a skunk family, and burned.

My mark is a gorgeous man. A sharp Zegna in black, cherry-topped with a silky, black bow tie. Easy Salvatore Ferragamo on his soles and from the couple of times I'd daunted a closer inspection— a sharp scent I couldn't pinpoint. Bvlgari Man in Black? That Jean-Pal Le Male? Or Versace Eros?

But scents hardly matters more than the item on his left wrist.

Audemars fucking Piguet.

It looked old enough; custom-made. Definitely not market produced. Something a father gave to a son, still perfectly polished. And a few times it hit direct faux light— a touch of gold across the glass face.

Everything about him screamed a difficult mark.

But a difficult mark > high rewards.

All of you have to know really, is the dance to entice.

And the dance to win.

I lifted my champagne to my lips, eyeing him over the bubbly and against the constant movement of the crowd. They're like shapeless blobs of riches. So many fishes swimming above board; happy, satisfied fishes. And one lonesome one who out riches them all. He had good cheekbones, a sharp jaw, and beautiful, full set lips. A nice gold skin tone and a steely gaze fixed intently outside of it. Dripping in boredom, oozing in unpleasantness— it was a kaleidoscope of kalopsia to stare at. Really, it was.

Because marks are marks, no matter who they are. No matter what they wear. There is greater than and less than, yes. But once you know the game, you become a predator across a sea of prey.

It's only how you paint yourself, how you present yourself that puts them at their knees. At your mercy.

And a powerful man on his is definitely a sight to behold.

I tilted the glass and emptied it out. It's sweet and airy as it went down my throat.

"Found you," I murmured, lips beading one slick of champagne left, flicking it with the pad of my thumb.

I waited. I had moved around, made myself visible and invisible. A reflection against the water of people. It was obvious he was here out of obligation; his jaw had locked a few times in agitation, and he hasn't smiled once. A few, brave men approached and got slung back so far, wide-eyed and flabbergasted scoffs had fired back.

But he was rock against stream. Burrowed so fucking deep, he existed to rupture their little joy. The furious stream trickled to part for him.

A bored, little rich man.

And what can reel in one?

Become someone fascinating. A curious little thing.

The seconds ticked.

He met my eye.

A con and a rich man.

But he doesn't need to know that.

I kept my smile and his stare, unflinching. "And found me."

I'll keep this as a coming soon for now, but I hope you liked that?