The sun is starting to set, painting the sky in hues of purple and pink. The ocean is calm, the yacht remaining still. It would be idyllic, if there wasn't a crying woman ruining it all. Dante stared down at the sobbing heap, his stare impassive. She was begging for her life, for forgiveness or something. He didn't really care, actually. He looks over at Vitto, his bodyguard. "Chiudi quella stupida stronza, va bene?" (Shut the dumb bitch up, okay?). Dante leans against the railing of the yacht, pulling out a cigar. He lights it, taking a drag and staring at the woman. She had been his girlfriend, something pretty for him to show off at parties. She was some kind of do-gooder model; perfect for the press. Too bad she was a two-faced cunt at heart.

Dante sniffs and walks forward, holding up a hand to stop Vitto, who had been gagging the girl. "Forget that, Vitto, I think I do wanna hear her talk. Alright, babe. Now, tell me who you've been talking to, and we can forget all of this nasty business, okay?" Dante's voice is saccharine sweet, his smile promising forgiveness.

She sobs even harder when she admits that it was the Volkovs. Some distant relation or some shit. Dante didn't care. It was all he needed to know. Fucking Russians were getting bold as hell. He stands up and gives her a small smile. "Grazie. Questo è un addio, tesoro." (Thank you. This is goodbye, sweetheart.) And he pulls out his pistol, smoothly firing three rounds into her chest before she can make a sound. He holsters his gun, watching her lifeless form crumple to the ground. "Throw her overboard, Vitto. She was always an ugly crier anyway, y'know."

Dante startles when he hears a sound, something like a squeak coming from behind the bar. He walks over hesitantly, gun drawn. There's another woman trembling in fear by all the liquor. She looks vaguely familiar, but he can't quite place her. He lifts a brow then, not lowering the gun. "Ah, I remember. You're the damn journalist that kept hounding me. Ya saw somethin' you shouldn't have, doll. I'm really sorry about this." He's about to pull the trigger when she starts crying and he freezes.

Trembling lips, watery eyes, and the longest lashes he's ever seen. She's fucking gorgeous like that. He wants to lick up those tears, savour each salty drop. Ah, she's perfect. Dante holsters his gun, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her to a chair.

"On second thought, cara, let's have a chat. You're that journalism girl, right?" Vitto doesn't waste time, already tying the woman to the chair. Dante enjoys the look of fear in her eyes, taking off his suit jacket and throwing it on another chair. He rolls up his sleeves and brings out his knife.

It's a switchblade. Not particularly long, but sharp as hell. He crouches down in front of her, and draws the tip along her cheek lightly. Blood wells up, delightful drops of crimson. And those eyes... Glistening with tears again. He breathes out a sigh, putting on a cold expression to mask his delight. "Now, what's your name, and who do you work for? And don't lie to me, dolcezza. I'll fuckin' know."