This was where he belonged. On his knees with his head lurched upwards, lips parted with a knife resting on his tongue, arms tied behind his back, blindfolded and unable to see that face of rage that shouted above him. No, he didn't belong in the boardroom, voicing his opinions to his Captain's Father. He had no voice, really. All he was for was to protect the young master, a tool at best. He shuddered as the edge of the blade pressed to the corner of his mouth, a soft jolt of pain rippling through the skin of his cheek, flushing with fear. The voice that was raw with enraged emotion accused him, and a sharp jerk of the hand that held the blade sent it sinking into his cheek, a howl of pain ripping from him.
It was choked as blood flooded down his throat, the blinding pain shocking him again as it was repeated on the other side of his face, his jaw hanging limply open, blood soaking into his hair and the collar of his clothes. The knife was dropped, as if it had turned to something grotesque, by the man above him and he slid down onto his side, trembling and coughing, blood slicking down his skin to pool under his head on the floor. He felt himself flitting in and out of consciousness, hearing vaguely the call for a doctor, for someone. He let the blackness swallow him.
Yes, this was where Micheletto belonged. Laying on the floor, blood pulsing from his wounds in time with his fluttering heartbeat, Cesare looking down at him with wild blue eyes.