Chapter One – Pursuits in Italy
Along the Amalfi Coast Highway, Southern Italy.
A young American couple, both in their 20’s, sits in the back seat of a taxicab speeding down the mountainous coast, driven by a Taxi Driver in his 50's.
A Traffic Sign Reveals:
Aeroporto Internazionale Di Napoli 30 Km
Inside the taxicab back seat, the woman expresses her fear with her agitated companion.
“Ari should think twice about hurting Americans...” the young woman says.
“Don't stake your life on it!” her male companion replies.
“Gotta get away from this guy. He is dangerous, and he used us,” she adds.
“Honey, we're only 18 miles from the airport...” he points out reassuringly.
“We can't escape from what happened to us...” she says.
“But we can help each other!” he asserts.
She looks at him questioningly at first. Then her eyes dart fearfully out the window.
An Italian auto follows them on the coast highway.
An older Italian male’s convertible speeds down the highway to pursue the couple. He is in his 40’s.
Inside the convertible, the Italian drives aggressively, his pistol visible at his side.
He starts to gain on the young couple. He clutches his gun.
Four Days Earlier in Positano:
An ancient Italian town, nestled among the mountains along the Amalfi Coast, shines in the daylight as viewed in the distance from the Bay of Naples. It is Positano.
Small boats lie on the sand at the bottom of the village and its streets, and others are tied up nearby in the water. A few tourists sit on the beach while others attempt to swim.
Lining the beachfront are a handful of restaurants with open-air tables and diners seated at them in the early afternoon.
As if taking a stroll, we walk up a winding, steep street, past small mom-and-pop businesses and hotels, to arrive at the top of the town.
Looking down from the top, we see the expanse of the Bay of Naples and its far reaches down the Amalfi Coast.
Nestled there at the top of the town stands a little boutique hotel.
We see its signage:
Albergo Conca di Fiori.
Inside his Albergo apartment in Positano, Arius Marstoni, known as Ari, in his late 40's, an Italian hotel magnate who owns the Conca di Fiori -- handsome, sophisticated, suave, and immediately charismatic -- sits at a desk, shuffling through papers.
He speaks animatedly with Bernardo Di Parma, 40's, a Camorra Mafia lieutenant from Calabria, who stands before him.
“When will I get my rifles? What's the holdup in Calabria?” Marstoni demands.
“We're talking with the Russians...”
“You Camorra bastards take too much time -- and I'm putting up a casino. So where are the guns now?”
Hastening to appease Marstoni, Di Parma replies, “Red tape stalled them in some Russian seaport -- but we've got men working on it.”
“Well, tell them to hurry the hell up – I need them now!”
Outside the Kaliningrad Merchant Sea Port in Russia, ships stand docked in the Kaliningrad Region of the Baltic Sea.
Inside a docked ship's stronghold, it is dark, but three crates containing rifles reveal their destinations:
CALABRIA, ITALIA
Back in Positano, Marstoni stands as he scoffs at the mention of Russians.
“Those Russian gangs? Can you trust them, Bernardo? They're criminals!”
“What do they say about the ‘pot calling the kettle...’ No insult intended,” Di Parma says, twitting Marstoni.
“Insult implied. I'm just a businessman, that's all. Just a businessman on a mission. To make money.”
“We understand perfectly, Signore Marstoni.”
“Do you? If you did, you would get me my shipment!”
Marstoni pauses.
Then, more intensely:
“How soon?”
“I will return to let you know exactly when. Have patience!”
“Believe me, Bernardo, you do NOT want to keep me waiting...now speed it up, damn it! As if your life depended on it!”
Di Parma bows nervously as he hastily runs out the door.
Outside Di Parma's home in Calabria, it is night.
In the middle of a series of narrow row houses on a side street, Di Parma approaches his front door and spots a manila envelope pinned to the door.
He pulls a picture of his beloved wife and twin boys from the envelope with a large "X" drawn across it in blood.
Threatened to the point of terror, he rushes into the house, screaming his wife's name.
“Rosa!”
From the top of the stairs, Rosa yells back:
“You’re late, Bernardo!’
“Where are the kids?
“In their rooms, ready for bed. Want something to eat?”
“Thank you, God!” Di Parma exclaims. “No, Rosa, I’ll get something.”
He got the message.
