CASSIAN
I stood in the center of the room, my chest heaving, the metallic tang of blood filling the air. Four dead men lay scattered across the expensive Italian rugs like discarded trash.
I turned my head slowly toward the wall. Lorenzo Marchetti was backed into a corner, his hands shaking so violently he couldn't even unclip his holster.
His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated terror. He looked at the carnage I had wrought in twenty seconds and realized he hadn't invited a businessman to dinner. He had invited the devil.
I approached him slowly. I wasn't even breathing hard. Blood was splattered across my suit, a dark, grisly map of the last twenty seconds. I looked like death personified, the "Prison King" energy radiating off me in suffocating waves.
I raised the gun and pressed the warm, smoking barrel directly against Marchetti's forehead.
