Page 149 of Dishonored

And he ate that shit for breakfast.

“Thing is,” Caesar continued, “for every one of you that speaks out here, Cain is going to drop you. He and I can leave this room alone, and begin the process of rebuilding this organization, or you can all make it a bit easier on us. Keep standing if you’ve got something to say, or sit your asses down if you want to let me talk. Go ahead and choose—I’ll wait.”

“You cock—”

Pop.

Caesar felt the splatter of blood drops hit his cheek when Cain turned his gun on Micky, and pulled the trigger. The back spray was a bitch.

Shaking his head, Caesar wiped at the blood on his cheek, and likely just smeared it. “All right, that’s one. Who wants to be next? We’ve got all day.”

Three men sat, including Daniele.

Two stayed standing.

Hard way it is.

His father’s office wasn’t as dreadful as it had been when the man was alive. He used to hate coming here—it could fucking induce walking nightmares, really. Yet, there he stood just hours after regaining control of an organization his father’s father had helped build for years, and he felt nothing but calm.

It was strange.

But he wasn’t complaining.

Moving behind the desk, Caesar pulled the chair out, and dropped into it unceremoniously. He had always hated this desk because it was huge, and terribly ostentatious. What kind of man needed a desk this big?

One trying to make up for something.

He still didn’t like it.

He simply respected it.

The phone in his pocket buzzed—Cain, likely, asking if he was done or if he was ready for the cleaner to come in and fix whatever hell he caused. Caesar slipped his hand in his pocket, and silenced the phone for a moment.

He needed to be alone.

To think.

Or at least until—

“W-what … Angelo?”

Caesar’s gaze drifted to the drunk woman stumbling past the office’s oak doors. Her hazy gaze, messy appearance, and missteps told him she had been drinking a hell of a lot since the funeral that morning. Martina looked like she was one good breath away from falling over, and dying of alcohol poisoning.

Too bad for her.

That would be an easy way to go.

Caesar wasn’t about to give this woman easy.

Her gaze narrowed as she blinked, and came closer to where Caesar sat behind the desk. She wasn’t seeing him—that he could tell. Her words only confirmed it further.

“Why won’t you come to bed, Angelo?”

Caesar didn’t speak, simply tipped his head to the side, and watched her come closer. How she was even staying upright, he didn’t know. At least, she had managed to throw on something for bed even if it was just a silk robe. God knew he’d seen enough of her nakedness over the years—not by his choice, obviously—but he kept his stare strictly to her face. She had nothing he wanted to see, anyway.

Martina rounded the edge of the desk, and used a shaky fingertip to trace the corner as she said, “You’re still angry with me, aren’t you?”

He refused to speak.