@perfectsonnets
Will doesn’t mask his disapproval when Jack tells him they’ll be working in cooperation with a private security company--a euphemism for military contractors, no better than mercenaries who kill for profit--but Jack remains unmoved. It’s a familiar dance, by now--Jack more or less tolerates Will’s insubordination, and Will’s long been resigned to the fact that his objections won’t actually change Jack’s mind about anything. So here they find themselves waiting to be formally introduced to Anvil’s CEO. Will doesn’t like the name any more than he likes their business, though he can recognize that, to a certain base, it would have some appeal. He banishes all thoughts of poetic justice, taps his foot impatiently against the shining wood floor.
Billy Russo has piercing, beetle-black eyes, cuts a sharp figure in his tailored bespoke suit with not a hair out of place. A pretty face for an ugly business--though nothing ever sticks to him, that much is clear--and something about his bright, wolfish smile makes Will’s skin crawl.
He folds his arms across his chest in deliberate refusal of Russo’s handshake--nothing left open to interpretation, nothing that could possibly be mistaken for awkwardness or a misreading of social cues.
“Mr. Russo.” He looks up into those dark eyes, unblinking; keeps his tone cool but short of openly hostile. “I imagine you’re accustomed to more, ah, prestigious clientele.”