Third person's POV.
The air in the grand drawing room was thick with the copper tang of blood and the expensive scent of aged cedar. Don Augustino sat comfortably in an armchair upholstered in velvet the color of a fresh bruise, watching the man on the floor crawl toward the heavy oak doors. The man was a mid-level lieutenant from a rival syndicate - a cockroach who had mistaken Augustino’s silence for weakness.
"You shouldn't have come here, Marcus," Augustino said, his voice a low, melodic purr that carried more weight than a scream ever could. He didn't look angry; he looked bored, as if he were watching a particularly dull play.
Marcus let out a wet, rattling wheeze, his fingers clawing at the hand-woven rug. "Please... Augustino... I was told…"
"You were told what you wanted to he
