Disclaimer; I don't own Alex Rider
Fifteen minutes had passed. Fifteen minutes and Alex Rider had walked out the embassy as if nothing had happened slipping on his £1200 Savile Row dinner jacket and straightening his bow tie twice. He hadn't turned around, no point, why witness something he was not a part of? His job was done and so he walked out of the dusty, ancient square and got into his Aston Martin V12 Vantage Coupe. 610 horse power and plenty of room to gallop. Of course the original had only a meagre 510 horse power but after a look in from Smithers the car was newly equipped with all sorts of deadly surprises if anyone chose to make the deadly decision of ever getting in his way.
And with that Alex Rider got into his car and headed out of Verona, Italy to home. Home, sweet, home.
Paris, France
Midnight struck with a chime. The streets were empty, the cafe' closed. The people and tourists who weren't already there rushed back to their homes and hotels after staying out a little too late. Although as Paris went to sleep, a certain somebody had woken up. Valentina Bourgeois's stilettos were the only sound that could be heard on the cold Parisian streets. She twirled from lamppost to lamppost humming 'La Vie En Rose' Her red Valentino dress swaying in the wind. Fashion was her life, it had been ever since she was a 5 year old girl and had put on her mother's wedding dress and danced in front of her Venetian mirror. That was the happiest moment of her life.
Valentino shook her head and mentally told herself to concentrate. She had to be at work in twenty minutes. Apparently, some idiotic third assistant had ripped the centrepiece of the new Lagerfeld collection. And with fashion week less than a month away it was the end of the world as they knew it and being head seamstress Valentina was the only one who could save it.
She smiled to herself and continued heading down the dark alleys...
London, England. 3:00am
It had been a day since Alex had arrived back to England and two weeks since he had come home. As he stepped into his Chelsea Penthouse a rush of familiarity came over him and he smiled to himself. Everything was exactly how he had left it. The spacious living room had boxes of pizza lying on the floor, beer bottles scattered across the Leather sofa. The Godfather still in the DVD player. His drum kit on the side and his old Nirvana, ACDC, Queen Vinyl's on the shelf and his guitar in the corner. His book shelf was still filled to the brim and the shiny parquet floor was still covered with an expensive Egyptian cotton rug in front of the fireplace. This was his home. Secluded, Private and A bachelor pad, just how he liked it...