James, as always, is soothed by how Stellan works, steady and sure. Not that it's enough to take away his irritation, but it is the reason that he doesn't jam the knife in the man's hand right away, he just presses the flat of the blade close to his eye. "Again. Who do you work for?"
The man's mouth opens and closes a couple of times, and he swallows, tears rolling silently down from the pain. "Marco," he spits out, in a calmer voice than James would have thought him capable of. And then seems to shut up.
Which means the knife does thud down into his hand, quivering as the tip hits the wood of the arm of the chair, and the man outright screams. "Amati! Amati, oh dio," and dissolves into a combination of snarls, tears and Italian curses, all spat and snotted at James, who looks at him like he was an interesting specimen of bug.