INT. PENTHOUSE SUITE IN PARIS. DAY
In luxurious, airy room overlooking the Champs-Élysées, three men in expensive suits sit in generously upholstered seats, making idle small talk. There is a palpable air of nervous waiting.
LEONARDO – What time is it now?
ANCELOTTI – What does it matter? Late is late. If he arrives in five minutes or five days, we’re already working to his timescale.
LEONARDO – Mino, you did tell him when to be here, right?
RAIOLA – (snorts, amused) Yeah, sure I did! I also told the sun to come up early so I could work on my tan, and I yelled at tiger to stop being so damn stripey. You want to know how I got on?
LEONARDO – Maybe he’s just caught in traffic.
RAIOLA – Nah, it takes more than cars and trucks to slow him down. Don’t worry Carlo, he wants to be here, so he’ll be here. You’ll know it when he arrives, trust me.
Ancelotti raises an eyebrow. No one notices.
LEONARDO – So… is everyone looking forward to seeing Great Britain at the Olympics?
They all burst out laughing. THEN SUDDENLY: the skylight EXPLODES as a tall, athletic figure riding a powerful motorcycle crashes through it and down into the room. The three suited men cover their heads as glass shards rain down like tiny daggers of light. The man on the motorcycle lands on his rear wheel, immediately popping a wheelie and racing a circuit around the men’s seats. He then leaps off the bike, allowing it to steer itself through the balcony window and onto the street far below. The man pulls off his helmet, allowing his luxurious blonde hair to flow free.
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