"Don Michele is no common bravo or brawler," Cesare says, picking a stray bit of ham from his teeth with a longish fingernail. "Terror does not amuse him; he does not draw things out, unless it is at my express orders." Reminiscent nod, eyes gleaming and proud. "He often uses... used a metal chain, you know? Heavy links. If the twist and torque are right, that breaks the victim's neck rather than choking them. Dislodges the vertebrae." His finger idly chases stray pepper, shrugs.
"Oh, I yelled at Don Michele for throwing the pair into the moat," he laughs after half a minute's busy licking of lime and fingers. "Beautiful gloves from Sermoneta, buon giorno? Those don't grow on trees. But of course he was right, and Madonna Caterina... she was just a rabid bitch."
When Xellos talks about blood, and... and corruption, he sits tight and listens, chewing the inside of his lip. Pretending to watch what Xellos's nimble hands are doing, he murmurs, "Really. Illness through blood. It would depend on the other party's humours, you mean?"