On my first meeting of Paolo Morelli -Eleanor Evans.
The city, though hushed now with the darkening sky, burbled away around me as I made my way through the unfamiliar night. Across the murky waters of the infamous river Thames, Westminster beamed proudly, its majestic body illuminated with an atmospheric glow.
Tucking my arms over the railings, head perched awkwardly atop the cool metal, I gazed curiously at the Elizabeth tower, although my mind was far more concerned with the marvellous clockwork of Big Ben nestled snug inside.
“Houghton-le-spring was where it was made, y’know. Opposite y’granda’s old house.”
The words of my babbling aunt came to mind. It was a useless fact - probably only marginally true - but it amused me, nonetheless. And for a moment, I felt that sense of belonging that the last few months in the strange city had deprived me of.
　
As dusk fell, my spirits rose. The city transforming into a haunted labyrinth as the shadows emerged. Back then, villains seemed to lurk around every corner for me to defeat - but, in truth, I was merely a creature of the underworld, awaiting a fellow conspirer.
The conspirer’s name, I was told, was Paolo Morelli. From what I know now, I’d say they were spectacularly misinformed regarding Morelli’s interests. But, back then, any information given about him was wrong anyway.
And so it was on this frosty night that I met him. The epitome of danger.
My mother used to say you could tell a man by the suit he wears. And, if that is the case, Paolo Morelli was not a man to be messed with. He reminded me of a gangster you’d see in a film. His hair was dark, slicked back with some form of gel or wax - though not tastelessly. And his suits were sharp and expensive - beautifully fitted products of Armani.
Every inch of him seemed to emanate danger. A shark dressed in a suit with a smile of lies and a black gaze of deceit. The ultimate Hollywood criminal. From the moment he stepped in to view, to the moment we parted, I was transfixed.
 (@_PaoloM @Elli_Evans_ )
